Chapter 26
TAAR
They keep me in isolation as I continue to come down from the virulium.
Every now and then the violence surges up within me once more, and I’m not safe.
My people take it in shifts to sit with me, but I am only vaguely aware of their presence.
Lathaira is there sometimes. Kildorath. Alluirnath, Keizana, Thuridar.
Never Halamar or Sylcatha; they are Ilsevel’s guardians, trading watches at her bedside.
I bless Nornala for them each time I remember.
I hold tight to the velra cord. It is still alive, but it no longer glows. That brightness and beauty we have shared all this while, even when we sought to resist it . . . something has compromised it now. It’s trembling, volatile, no longer sure. And the shining golden quality is gone.
I hold on even so, a lifeline to pull me back from the darkness which still seeks to swallow me.
I know the virulium will not fully claim my soul this time.
It hits me hard after such a long abstinence, but it’s not built-up in my veins like it was back in the day.
Still I don’t come back as clearly and cleanly as I did when Ilsevel sang me out of the darkness.
How I long for her voice! For her touch, for a mere glimpse of her face.
But she is suffering, and I must find a way to make myself stronger, better, and whole, so that I can be what she needs right now.
At long, long last, I open my eyes—and there is no dark film covering my vision.
I’m shrouded in the familiar, gloomy half-light of a dakath interior.
The familiar scent of cured hides and khiir wool fills my nostrils.
Judging by the glow making its way through gaps in the wall stitching, it is late in the day. How long have I been unconscious?
Ilsevel.
A bolt of lightning seems to streak through the velra and enter my heart. I gasp at the pain and sit upright on my low pallet bed. A broad figure moves in my peripheral vision, and I turn sharply, prepared for battle.
It’s Lathaira.
“Easy now, luinar,” the chieftain says, motioning gently with one hand. “You’ve had a bad spell. You’re through the worst of it; the fever has broken.”
“Ilsevel . . .” I whisper.
She nods. “She’s in the next dakath over. My daughter watches over her even now.”
I start to rise, but Lathaira’s large hands clasp my shoulders, pushing me back. “Stop. You need to recover yourself.”
I don’t want to heed her, but my body simply refuses to cooperate with the urgency in my soul. I fold up on myself, hating this weakness with every fiber of my being. It will be better though, if I can just get to Ilsevel. Surely that proximity will strengthen me, even as it has done before.
But somehow I know it isn’t the strained velra which weakens me now. It’s more than that. Something much worse.
“What’s happened?” I ask, my voice rough and dry. “Since I’ve been . . . out?”
“You mean with the siege?” Lathaira chuckles darkly.
“Prince Ruvaen has no patience with you and your fainting spells, I fear. He’s been giving orders, readying the next assault.
Whatever hobgoblins you didn’t personally rip to shreds last night did at last make their way to the city ruins.
By dawn this morning, there were some gory trophies displayed from the ramparts, according to my scout riders. ”
She doesn’t elaborate, for which I am grateful. In the virulium madness, I would have reveled in such gruesome details; today, with the darkness mostly purged from my blood, it only makes me sick.
“Once the city is secured,” Lathaira continues, “Ruvaen intends to make another push to the citadel. But he needs you, of course. The Licornyn need you. There’s tension in the ranks, unrest. Unless I am much mistaken, those Noxaurians have been passing virulium around to our people.”
My gut tightens. My people know they are forbidden to take the black demon’s blood. But why should they obey such a command when their own luinar broke faith with his vows just last night?
I hang my head, my mind fuzzy; I can’t seem to pull thoughts together. I keep seeing flashes—gory images of hobgoblins ripped to pieces. And that last dreadful image of a licorneir crumpled in a pool of her own blood, her body ripped to pieces.
Diira.
Ilsevel.
I surge to my feet. Everything Lathaira is trying to tell me—about Ruvaen and his plans, about the arrangement of troops, about the coming march—none of it makes any sense to my brain. “I must go to her,” I say raggedly. It’s the only thing that matters.
Ignoring Lathaira’s protests, I push my way out of the dakath and into the too-bright afternoon sunlight.
People have gathered outside, so many anxious faces, awaiting news of their luinar.
I’m only vaguely aware of them, of their eager voices calling out to me, of the joy caused by my emergence.
My gaze fixes on a nearby dakath, and the velra pulls me toward it. I stagger that way like a drunken man.
But then I catch sight of a face from the tail of my eye. Kildorath. Standing close, watching me.
Something inside snaps.
Turning abruptly, I stumble, find my balance, then lurch at the warrior. My hands catch him by the throat, backing him up hard against a support beam. Kildorath cries out, “Luinar!” just before his breath is choked off. He grips my hands but is unable to break my hold, despite how weakened I am.
“You let her ride into danger!” I snarl in his face. “You saw where she rode, and you did not stop her!”
Kildorath shakes his head. He tries to speak, but my grip is too tight. Lathaira appears at my shoulder, grabs me by the arms. “Let go of him,” she snarls. “Shakhing hell, you don’t want to go committing murder here before all these witnesses!”
I won’t release my grip. Not until Halamar looms beside me, takes hold of my other arm, and pulls me back. Only then do I relent, and Kildorath falls to his knees, choking, gagging.
“You wanted her to die!” I scream at him, my face close to his despite the arms pulling me back. “You knew the hobgoblins were out there, and you let her go!”
Kildorath turns his head, rubbing his neck as he grimaces up at me. “I saw her ride out, yes,” he admits. “But it looked to me as though she meant to ride to the citadel. I’ve warned you all along, Taar—she’s one of them.”
“Liar!”
All the blood drains from his face. Kildorath holds up both hands, ready to fend off further attack.
“I may have been mistaken,” he admits. “I know only what I saw: your warbride, riding as hard and fast as she could straight toward the enemy line. I called out to her, but she did not turn. And now the licorneir is dead. Dead, Taar.”
He speaks the harsh words as though in accusation.
As though Diira’s death is Ilsevel’s doing.
But how can it be? I cannot imagine Ilsevel would ride out into that dangerous territory on purpose.
Kildorath’s implication that she might try to rejoin her own kind I dismiss out of hand.
It isn’t the truth—I know it as surely as I know the sun will set and night will fall.
Ilsevel is my wife, my heartbound, my true song.
Kildorath may want me to believe her false, but he will never convince me with such a feeble story.
“Come, luinar,” Halamar says, drawing me away from the kneeling warrior. “Come, she needs you now. Leave him. He can wait.”
I allow myself to be led away. Halamar supports me, and Lathaira follows close behind.
In a daze of sorrow and anger and fear, I’m brought to the dakath, a little smaller than my own.
I duck inside. Before me lies a small pallet piled with soft blankets and hides.
Sylcatha crouches on the far side of it.
She holds a bowl of water in her lap and gently bathes the face of the pale woman lying before her.
She looks up at my entrance. Silently she sets both bowl and cloth aside, rises, bows, and steps back. But not far.
I stare down at Ilsevel.
Her skin is stained with silver licorneir blood, and her face is pinched with the pallor and pain that accompanies approaching death.
Almost corpselike, so low is the spark of life inside her.
I’ve seen this kind of suffering before, but I do not want to name it, do not want to acknowledge it.
Do not want it to be true. Not for her. Never for her.
But I force myself to look at Halamar, who stands close beside me. “Is she . . . ?”
“Velrhoar.” He speaks the confirmation in a low voice, heavy with certainty. He knows the truth better than most, having endured it himself. He meets my gaze, and though his face is as stonelike as ever, I glimpse a sheen of tears in his black eyes. “I am sorry, luinar.”
My throat too thick to allow for breath, I kneel at the bedside. My fumbling hand finds hers, and I draw it to me, bowing over her. “Ilsevel,” I say softly. “Ilsevel, can you hear me?”
There is no sign of life or recognition. She lies so still. Her face looks otherworldly, stained as it is with Diira’s blood.
A terrible sob rips from my lips. I find I’m talking in a wild manner, a stream of half-formed words, begging her forgiveness.
I should have protected her. I should never have told her to run.
I should have been strong enough for her, for Diira.
If only I could take this pain from her I would.
Far better for me to suffer than to watch her suffering.
“Please, Ilsevel,” I plead incoherently. “Wake up and tell me how. Tell me how I can make it right for you, my love, my love.”
She does not stir. Her breathing is painfully shallow.
“She is in the worst of it now,” Halamar says softly behind me.
“How long will it last?”
“I do not know. It could be hours yet. Days even. And when she wakes . . .”
I drag in a shuddering breath, remembering all too vividly how it was when Halamar woke from a similar stupor.
How hard both Tassa and I fought to keep the man alive through the depths of his despair.
It was a hard battle, and even now I often wonder if it was ever truly won, despite the evidence which stands before me.
I gaze down at Ilsevel. Oh, gods, she’s already lost so much, suffered so much.
First her sister and now this? Why? Why, why, why?
I don’t know if I cry the prayer out loud or scream it from the silent depths of my soul.
Why would the gods bring her back from death itself, restore her in that blessed bond of song with one of their own mighty beasts?
Why would they do that only to rip Diira from her again?
To leave her worse off than she was before?
Better to have died by flame than to endure velrhoar.
I don’t know how I’ll bear it. In that moment I would curse the gods themselves and let them strike me down. But I can’t. I must remain strong. For Ilsevel. She is going to need me.
A large hand comes down on my shoulder. “Luinar,” Lathaira says, “you must let her go.”
I shudder, hunching away from that touch and over my pale bride.
“She suffers too much,” the chieftain continues relentlessly. “It is not fair to keep her here. When she wakes—if she wakes—you know what you must do. You must free her. Send her back to her own kind. Let her forget all this.”
I shake my head, an inarticulate growl in my throat.
But Lathaira will not stop. “It is not fair to keep her here. Bonded to a licorneir as she was, she had a chance of finding her place. Now? She will be seen only as a velrhoar. She will be hated and despised all the more for having lost one of our blessed ones. You know what I say is true, Taarthalor. You know you cannot keep her now.”
“Get out,” I whisper.
“Luinar—”
“Get out! All of you! Leave me with my wife!” I whirl in a crouch, fists clenched, eyes flashing with the threat of violence.
One hand reaches for a sword that is not at my belt.
If it had been, I cannot guarantee that I wouldn’t have drawn it and thrown myself at Lathaira then and there.
She stares down at me, her eyes wide, and I feel both Halamar and Sylcatha’s gazes on me as well.
Then Lathaira inclines her head. Without another word she leaves the dakath, followed by the other two.
I turn to Ilsevel once more. Lifting her limp hand to my lips, I kiss it ardently, passionately.
“Ilsevel,” I murmur. “Ilsevel, feel my love for you. Let it guide you back. Even as you drew me out of darkness, let me draw you out from this pain. Please, my zylnala. You are needed here still. You are loved.”
Bowing my head over her, I press my face into her breast and weep like a lost child.