Chapter 5
ILSEVEL
“It’s all well and good for you to say you believe in me. But what exactly are you believing and, more to the point, do I believe it myself well enough to pull it off?”
Something is closed down tight in Taar’s face.
And I don’t like it. He stands close to the small, stone-circled fire inside the main chamber of his massive dakath.
The interior of his abode is far more luxurious than Halamar’s, where I stayed my first night upon arriving in the Hidden City.
Like the Meeting House, the walls are intricately decorated in motifs of ilsevel blossoms and stars, each of which signify some important aspect of Licornyn culture and history, no doubt.
The floors are strewn with soft hide rugs, and low, amply-stuffed furnishings offer places of repose.
None of us choose repose just now, however.
Taar stands straight-legged, arms crossed over his massive chest, turned slightly away from me.
I hang back in a patch of daylight falling through one of the high upper window-flaps.
His sister, Tassa—my ever-present guardian since our arrival—lurks on the far side of the chamber, her deportment mirroring her brother’s, her glower even more forbidding.
The atmosphere feels smoky and close, but that might have more to do with the tension in my chest.
Despite his bulk and the strength which perpetually radiates from his inner being, Taar looks worn out.
I feel it in the song of his soul, which forges bravely on despite his lagging energy.
Though no less magnificent, his face is aged in this lighting, scored with careworn lines.
An urge comes over me to take him in my arms, to draw him down onto one of these cushioned loungers, lay his head upon my breast, and bid him rest. Tassa’s disapproving stare holds me at bay, however.
So I cross my arms like the two of them, widening my stance slightly as I await answers.
At least I am no longer gagged. Tassa removed that offensive binding when we entered the dakath, but I am told I must don it again should I dare poke my head outside.
“Please,” I say at last, interrupting the long silence. “Taar, whatever you’re not telling me, I’d rather hear it than be left imagining the worst. What is this test you’ve agreed to on my behalf?”
Tassa speaks harshly in Licornyn, drawing a warning glare from her brother.
Taar shakes his head heavily. When he speaks, his words are reluctant, as though making a forced confession.
“Upon rare occasion,” he says, “when a new bond is formed between licorneir and rider, the velarin is called into question. It has only happened once since I came to live with the Rocaryn Tribe. I don’t know how such matters were dealt with back in the days before the Rift and the scattering of the remnant Licornyn people, but here among the Rocaryn, they take such accusations very seriously. ”
The knot of tension tightens in my chest. “Well?” I urge. “What happened? The one time you observed, I mean?”
Taar wrenches his gaze away from me, as though meeting my eye causes him pain.
Instead he stares into the flickering fire, giving me a clear view of his hard, stern profile, the growth of black beard along his jaw.
“It was a strange situation.” His voice is almost musing, falling back into the memory.
“There were two young warriors, twins. As alike as two matched blades. They were close in everything throughout childhood and early training, true brothers and companions. But there was only one licorneir eligible for the bond that year. Ciradi was her name, a lovely beast with a rosy-gold hide. She chose Elashor . . . or so it appeared.”
I can see where this is going. I observed the desperation among the people of the Hidden City when hearttorn Nyathri was brought into the city.
Every man, woman, and child of this tribe would risk their life for the chance to bond with her, though she sought to kill any who approached.
How much worse must the rivalry be among young warriors-in-training over a healthy, un-torn licorneir?
“Elandorr, the other twin,” Taar continues, “insisted the bond had been wrested from him by means of dark sorcery.
He claimed his brother had ventured alone into Cruor and gathered chaeora blossoms, the corrupt counterparts of the ilsevel, which have been long exposed to the darkness of Ashtari.
They retain powerful properties, but though we use them to make the restraining ropes you have seen, it is forbidden to feed them to our licorneir.
But Elandorr insisted that, having fed the chaeora to Ciradi, along with drops of his own blood, his brother applied certain ruehnar marks, influencing her choice and driving her to form a false bond to him.
“This was a terrible accusation indeed. But ruehnar marks were found on the licorneir, along with traces of chaeora blossoms. Elashor, naturally, offered both explanations and protests, and the evidence was all circumstantial, but there was enough to give some credence to Elandorr’s word. So the elders called for a bond-test.”
A lump thickens in my throat. I swallow it with difficulty. “Yes, all right. That’s all straightforward enough. But what does this test involve exactly?” Any number of vague, dark images dance across my mind’s eye. “Burning? Impaling? Poison?”
From the far side of the fire, Tassa’s voice hisses out a curse. “She thinks us barbarians, brother.”
“You’ve given me little enough to go on,” I snap. “How am I to guess the ways of your people? Only a short while ago, I found myself tossed to the bottom of a well, awaiting imminent execution, so pardon me while I imagine the worst!”
Taar speaks to Tassa in a low, firm voice. She tosses her hands and shoots me a withering glare before putting her back to me. Taar shakes his head before addressing me once more.
“Our world is a small one,” he says. “A pocket world, of sorts. I have told you of its creation by the hand of Nornala, formed exclusively for her licorneir and the Licornyn people. Over generations, the borders of this world have grown as our population increased, and our towns and cities spread. Since the days of the Rift, however, we exist primarily in the hinterlands, which is the country on the very edge of our world’s borders.
“Beyond the hinterlands is what we call the Unformed Lands. This is shapeless country which may, over time, be claimed and solidified into Licornyn territory, if the songs of the licorneir permeate its soil. Until then, it is a nebulous space of uncertain existence. There are no paths in this place, no safe roads that may be followed by those who know or recognize them. It is a realm of pure potential, existing in the sliver of existence between the physical realm and realities far more complex and strange.”
Though I listen attentively, my brain struggles to comprehend what he says. I am new still to world-traveling, to the idea of layered realities and the spaces between them. I’m not sure I will ever truly understand. But a terrible dread begins to blossom in my gut, nonetheless.
“Licorneir,” Taar continues, “may navigate the Unformed Lands alone, but generally choose not to. Without an anchor for their souls, they are vulnerable to unmaking.”
“You mean death?” I whisper.
Taar frowns. “Death would be preferable. This is an unraveling of essence, which will then reweave itself into a new form, not quite like what it was before. It may be the licorneir loses its ability to velra, to bond with a rider, making it no different from a wild unicorn. It may be a worse transformation still, one I cannot guess. I know all this only in theory, you understand. There is no documentation, and the only songs and tales which have lived on through the ages speaking to this subject are abstract, to say the least. All I know for certain is that an unbonded licorneir would never enter the Unformed willingly. It is perilous even for a bonded soul.”
I can see where this story is going. Part of me would rather not hear it, but I ask anyway, “What happened to Elashor?”
Taar breathes out heavily. “He was sent into the Unformed Lands. While his licorneir was restrained, he was made to march forward, out of our world, until he vanished from all sight.”
My lungs constrict painfully in my chest.
“His licorneir—lovely Ciradi—was then unleashed and given the chance to find her vellar. Up and down the edge of the Unformed boundary she galloped, singing a wild sort of song, tail streaming behind her, hooves tearing up the ground. I remember watching her for over an hour, holding my breath, praying she would make a sudden dart across the boundary, go after her rider. Go after him, find him, bring him safely home as only she could.”
His words trail away. He cannot bear to finish the story.
After a too-long silence, it is Tassa who takes up the tale.
“Elandorr never recanted a word of his accusations,” she says, her accent stronger than her brother’s, her voice sharper.
“But a good twelve months after the loss of his brother, he disappeared. Some say he went into the Unformed Lands, searching for Elashor.”
“And . . . Ciradi?” I ask.
Tassa meets my gaze across the fire’s glow. “Velrhoar.”
My heart sinks. “It was true then,” I whisper. “The bond to Elashor was real.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs, her expression cool, but fire glints in the depths of her eyes.
“Or perhaps the spell used was strong enough that the breaking of it caused a soul-reaction akin to velrhoar. The result was the same for Ciradi either way. She was lost to us and given a swift death when she could not be bonded anew.”