Chapter 4 #3
I continue and do not pause until I stand before the dais.
I am tall enough to look directly into the face of each wrinkled elder, hunched as they are in their heavy robes.
Halaema sits forefront of the others, the undisputed leader.
As the former heartbound to my own Elydark, who knew him by his previous name, Halaema has always been of special interest to me.
We share an unusual relationship. But from the way she looks at me now beneath the heavy mounding of her forehead wrinkles, one would think I was her worst enemy.
“So, Taarthalor,” she speaks at last, after a fraught silence. “They tell me you succumbed to the drothlar. Even as we feared.”
“They told you wrong, Elder,” I respond in a calm, clear voice. “I acted as any man must under the velra, defending his wife, no matter the risk.”
Halaema curses in a low hiss. “You should know better, my boy. You were born not without wisdom. Where along the way have you left it?”
“I stand by the wisdom of experience,” I reply, “and I believe the testimony of my own eyes. I have seen the woman who is my wife perform a great miracle, bonding with a licorneir even as she bonded to me.”
An eruption of horrified whispers breaks out amongst the elders. Elder Halaema holds up a gnarled claw, and silence follows. “Explain yourself, Taarthalor,” she demands.
So I tell her of what I have seen. I speak of the licorneir, once Nyathri, who bestowed her name in secret unto my wife.
I speak of their ride across Cruor in pursuit of our enemies, and tell how together they saved me from the clutches of the Miphates and their fiendish slaves.
I hold back nothing. In my description of the valley filled with dead licorneir, I allow my voice to carry all the horror I myself experienced at the sight.
And it is with deepest sorrow I relate the sight of Shanaera and all those dead friends of ours in her company, brought back to a damnable un-life, enslaved to our enemies.
“Shanaera intended to make me undead like the others,” I say, unable to quell the tremor that goes through my very soul at the thought. “Were it not for Ilsevel, I would even now be shambling among the damned, enthralled to Miphates’ magic.”
The elders listen, various masks of horror and disgust on each of their aged faces.
Some look ferocious, like the warriors they once were.
Others look devastated, thinking of the names I gave and the relationships they once knew to these people—sons, daughters, cousins, friends.
We are all connected in Rocaryn Tribe, and each loss reverberates through our hearts.
But Halaema remains grim, stone-faced as a weather-worn carving throughout my recounting.
“You spin a worthy tale,” she says when I come to the end of my speech.
“Our songsters would much enjoy embroidering it with verse and drums, no doubt. But how much of your perception, dear luinar, is twisted with drothlar spells?” She leans forward, her old spine creaking with the effort.
“Is it not more likely that, rather than bonding with one of our licorneir, your human warbride has played you for a fool? Convinced you of her innocence, all the while deepening her hold upon you?”
“Remember,” one of the other elders rumbles, “she took control of Birenthor’s and Vomyar’s licorneir. Possessed their minds and caused them to turn upon their masters. This is magic of the blackest sort.”
“I did not witness what took place in that moment,” I reply staunchly. “But I know what I myself have seen. Nyathri was velrhoar; she is no longer. No reports of Miphates attempting to cursebond mentioned anything about hearttorn licorneir.”
“Rumors and whispers.” Halaema spreads her hands. “We can none of us know the whole truth.”
I incline my head slightly. “Perhaps not, Elder. But this truth I know indeed: I love Ilsevel, my bride. I have chosen this velra bond, committed to her in body and soul. And I will die to defend her, even as I vowed. Whatever the cost.”
“Even the cost of Licorna itself?” another elder asks softly, her voice a gentle murmur.
Silence follows. I cannot speak; my tongue has cleaved to the roof of my mouth. That cost is great. Too great. Even for the love I bear. But I cannot admit as much. To admit it would be a betrayal of what I feel for my wife.
Halaema studies my face, seeing more than I should like.
“Remember, Taarthalor,” she says at long last, driving the point home, “in choosing this marriage, you would betray your people. What will become of your hard-won alliance to Prince Ruvaen then? What will become of your assault on Evisar, the reclamation of the citadel, and all your plans to drive the Miphates from our land and reestablish the kingdom of your forefathers? That dream will end, along with the dream of Nornala herself. Without you to unite them, the tribes will fracture. They will disperse and go out into the wilds, losing all access to the ilsevel blossoms and, in turn, lose their bonds to their licorneir. One by one, they will vanish, swallowed up by the Unformed Lands. Our very way of life will be at an end, and Licorna but a swiftly-fading memory.”
The weight of her words bows my head, threatens to break my shoulders.
I close my eyes as my heart cries out in silent plea to the gods for guidance.
The only response I receive is a sudden burn in my chest. I crack my eyelids and see that golden knot marked on my breast from which the velra now extends, unseen to all other eyes in this room but mine. But no less real.
I place one hand solemnly over that glow, feel the power pulsing within. I will trust this gift of Nornala. Unwanted, unsought, unasked for . . . but a gift beyond anything I ever deserved. I will trust this love. I will trust Ilsevel.
Looking up, I meet and hold Halaema’s gaze. “Send her into the Unformed Lands.”
Halaema’s head jerks back slightly in surprise. “What?”
“The bond-test. The sacrament to prove the truth of the velra. If Ilsevel’s connection to Diira is true, she will survive. Survive and prove to all of you once and for all there is no drothlar, only the holy gift of the gods themselves, endowing her with the blessing of Licorna.”
“Do you realize,” one elder asks in a deep, wary tone, “what you are asking? The Unformed Lands are perilous. Not one warrior in ten survives. What makes you think this little human can endure that which the proudest Licornyn rider would not dare attempt?”
I draw a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “Because I believe in her,” I say. “I believe in my wife.”