Chapter 8 TAAR
TAAR
The instant they unbind her, Diira streaks for the edge of our world, lunging into that wavering un-reality while the echoes of her roar still reverberate in the ears of the onlookers.
My heart twists at the sight. How is this not, in and of itself, proof of the bond she and Ilsevel share?
Surely not a soul here who remembers Elashor’s ordeal has forgotten the way his licorneir cantered up and down the boundary, singing sadly but unable or unwilling to make the plunge.
Even when she collapsed into hearttorn madness, no one could say for certain whether their bond was false or true.
Only that it was not strong enough to bring him back.
But Diira does not hesitate. Not for a moment. Will the sight of her desperation and resolve move the stony hearts of my people?
She vanishes, just as Ilsevel vanished before her, passing from plains of perception into realms beyond thought and time.
My soul shudders. But I cannot let doubt break me now.
I believe in Ilsevel, in this miraculous bond she and her licorneir have formed.
I believe as well in my own connection to her, in the velra which stretches out from its source at my heart, bright and true.
Only . . . only it feels strangely unanchored now.
I may not be collapsing in pain or sudden vulnerability.
In fact, it feels as though she’s not gone far from me at all, as though she’s somehow remained close, a mere breath away from my flesh and spirit.
But whatever she is no longer fits within my comprehension.
I love her without knowing what she has become.
My grip on Elydark’s mane tightens, knuckles standing out hard and white.
All I can do now is wait. And pray. But I struggle to find words for a prayer.
Instead I let the wordless cry of my soul blend with Elydark’s eternal song and send that music winging to heaven, a resonant petition.
May the gods receive it and look upon me with grace.
Many eyes watch me, some subtly, some with invasive curiosity.
Unable to bear gazing upon that unfathomable un-reality in front of them, my people turn their attention to me instead.
I feel each and every gaze like brands against my flesh.
From the time-hardened contemplation of the elders to the youthful wonder of the adolescent riders, and all the various colors of thought and feeling in between.
The fear, the resentment, the uncertainty.
I do not turn to face them. No, not even Halaema or Kildorath, though I feel their gazes most keenly.
My eyes fix forward, risking the madness which threatens all who stare too long into the Unformed Lands.
I study that distant and yet too-near horizon, watch the subtle shifts of air, the warps of unanchored time and reality.
All the while, I hold onto that gold thread of the velra, unwilling to let it go.
As long as there’s a chance she is still out there on the other end of it, I will never let go.
Time passes. The sun arcs across the distant sky, its rays never penetrating nor influencing the visible land beyond the invisible boundary.
All that vista remains gray and dull and faintly shimmering, even as our world descends into evening.
The riders begin to break formation. Some turn and ride back for the Hidden City, convinced the test is over already and there’s nothing more to witness.
Others peel away, retreating from the boundary to make small campfires at a safe distance and bed down for a night of waiting.
Eventually only Halaema and Kildorath remain.
They sit astride their mounts some distance off to my right and make no effort to draw near.
I don’t know if they remain out of some sense of solidarity with their luinar, or if they are simply waiting for me to concede defeat. It changes nothing either way.
I breathe out a long sigh. Then, my heart twisting like a knife in my breast, I send out another song along the golden thread. Ilsevel, I sing. Come back to me, my zylnala.
O! gods on high, who gifted her from the time of her birth with great power and great purpose, send her back. Let her return to this world, let her accomplish all that you have set before her. Let this not be the end. If you will only hear my prayer, I will vow to—
A burst of white light. Like an exploding star, appearing suddenly on the edge of that horizon.
Simultaneously as distant as eternity and as present as the next heartbeat.
It swells, brighter and brighter, so blindingly bright it should melt eyeballs from their sockets, yet I find I can stare into it safely, protected as I am by Elydark’s soulfire.
At first I cannot perceive it as anything other than a sudden force of destruction, and my heart quails.
Then I realize what I truly see. What my ears could not perceive, but what my soul recognizes: song. Living song.
No sooner does this realization strike than Diira, white flames dancing over every inch of her blue-black hide, bursts upon my perceptions, carrying that song with her.
The great sphere of light condenses rapidly down into the form of a galloping licorneir.
She streaks across that foreshortened gray landscape, the fastest of her kind, a living bolt of lightning.
Occasionally her form flickers out of sight, but she always reappears the next moment, steadily drawing nearer and nearer.
Ilsevel clings to her back.
Elydark is already in motion by the time I recover from my initial shock.
His own flame ignites, bursting from his horn and spreading over his flanks as he carries me across the distance.
We arrive at the very edge of our formed world just as Diira bursts through, her hooves tearing up the soil.
She skids to a stop and rears, trumpeting her triumph to the twilit heavens.
Ilsevel slips numbly from her back and lands in a huddle of awkward limbs.
Diira’s forefeet hit the ground, and she turns her great head, nuzzling her rider with concern as music trills in complex patterns and vibrations from her great throat.
I spring from Elydark’s back and sprint the rest of the distance between us to fall on my knees beside my bride.
Diira flares with fire, growling a wolfish warning, but at my entreating look, she relents.
Her flaming eyes burn into mine for a moment before she lowers her lids and turns her head partially away, allowing me access to the one to whom we are both so irrevocably bound.
“Ilsevel,” I say softly and gather her into my arms. Her head rests in the crook of my elbow, and I study her face, searching for signs of unmaking.
She looks the same—that stern set of her brow, that pouting, kissable mouth, that expression of determination which follows her even into sleep.
Something about her feels bigger, however.
As though the scope of her has increased and doesn’t fully fit inside this fragile mortal frame any longer.
“Ilsevel,” I say again, her name a rough song on my lips. “Ilsevel, my love, can you hear me?”
Movement off to one side draws my eye. I turn to see Halaema tottering toward me on her own feet, having left her unwilling horse behind.
Kildorath is with her, still mounted on Miramenor.
Beyond him the rest of the company have gathered, their expressions a mixed pattern of wonder, shock, amazement, and no little horror.
“So, Taarthalor,” Halaema says, leaning heavily on a crooked little walking stick. “She has returned to you.”
I don’t want to speak. My soul is strangely drained of energy in this moment, despite the renewed proximity to my bride. The suspense took a greater toll on me than I realized while enduring it. So I merely look at Halaema and let her hear triumphant vindication echoing in my silence.
No one protests when I carry Ilsevel back to the Hidden City before me on Elydark’s saddle.
Not even Diira, though she remains pressed uncomfortably close to Elydark’s side.
The rest of the host follows at some distance behind, wary and watchful, still riddled with doubt.
I spare them not even a backward glance.
Ilsevel has yet again accomplished the impossible.
What more could they possibly need from her before they will finally accept her?
Yet the gnawing fear in my gut doesn’t diminish. It won’t be enough, that fear whispers. It will never be enough . . .
I hold my chin high and ride on, a proud luinar once more, not a prisoner. Elydark all but prances, arching his red neck and lifting his massive hooves high. Diira is less jubilant. She keeps her gaze focused on Ilsevel, the soul-song between them a constant hum.
We reach the Hidden City late that night.
Most people have already retired, but some, hearing the sound of approaching hooves, peer out from their dakaths.
Gasps of shock and wonder punctuate the air.
Ripples of rumor soon spread through the streets, and by the time I reach my own dakath in the city center, someone has alerted my sister.
Or perhaps she sat up late into the night, awaiting my return.
Regardless she stands outside the door now, a licatha lantern in one hand.
Halamar lingers in the shadows, some yards away from her, present but withdrawn as always.
I urge Elydark to halt directly in front of my sister and look down at her. She meets my gaze, holding it long and hard before finally allowing her eyes to flicker over Ilsevel and then to Diira.
“So,” she says at last, “she has proven the bond.”
I nod.
“And . . . does she live?”
“She lives.”