Chapter 28 TAAR
TAAR
In the end it’s so easy.
I would have thought, given the profound strength of this velra, that the breaking of it would require some degree of magic or sorcery. Some enspelled blade, perhaps, to sever the fibers which have so inextricably bound us these last weeks.
But when Ilsevel speaks those words, I can almost see it—the way the strands uproot from her chest, from that place where the ruehnar mark burns beneath her bloodstained bodice.
Like a tree toppling in a storm, they pull away, and the rootlets tear chunks of her spirit out as they come, leaving an ugly hole and a broken rune, none of which are perceptible to physical eyes.
I look down at my own chest. At the ruehnar burning there, still so bright.
Only now the burn is not a warming glow of certainty, but sharp pain.
I feel the need to claw it away, to separate myself from it.
The velra hangs limp, no longer connected.
It does not uproot the way Ilsevel’s did.
Instead it shrivels up to a little dried husk of a thing and is no more.
And I am empty. As though my heart has been scooped out and my chest cavity hollowed with hammer and chisel.
I turn from her without a word. Perhaps it is traditional for a disavowed husband to speak some final parting to his once-bride, but my lips are empty, my head ringing with the thunder of pounding blood.
The pain is too great, the realization of what cannot be undone too all-consuming.
I have failed her. I have failed to protect her, failed to honor the vows I made to her.
In that failure I have proven myself no worthy husband.
She is well within her rights to reject me. To declare me unfit, an oath-breaker, an untrue mate. And so I must leave her now, as the dark of silmael shields us from Nornala’s watching eye.
Somehow I find my way out from the dakath into the cold night air.
My heart pounds against the broken rune on my breast. I feel a sickness whirling in my veins—a sickness I recognize.
The residual virulium, even now pulsing inside me, reminding me of everything it has to offer.
The darkness, the bloodlust. The forgetfulness.
Oh, what sweet oblivion is to be found within the Demon’s Kiss!
A wild craving seems to come over me, the urge to mutilate and maim.
It seems to me in that moment the only possible salve for this pain.
I breathe out slowly, eyes closed and fists clenched. Oh gods, spare me! Give me the strength to fight this hurt, to fight this burning urge! But with my eyes shut, I see Ilsevel’s face again. Her coldness through which flashes of hatred may be briefly glimpsed.
I failed her.
I failed her and lost her.
Lost her heart, lost her love.
It was much easier to lose her love than it was to win it.
Almost as though it was inevitable. Was I truly foolish enough to think I’d found something lasting?
Some eternal bond that would sustain me through this life and beyond?
Perhaps this is the madness that drives most couples to make such solemn vows, the blindness which prevents them from recognizing their own stupidity.
A figure approaches from the shadows. Halamar.
I turn slowly, look into his velrhoar face, and see the echo of my wife’s suffering in his eyes.
How vividly I recall the moments when he too woke from that initial stupor caused by his licorneir’s death.
How he rejected Tassa, cast her from him, and plunged his soul into the abyss of solitary self-loathing and pain.
Theirs was not a marriage bond, but the heartbreak my sister experienced was profound.
I find I am closer to hating Halamar now, in this moment, than I’ve ever been before. Perhaps he reads that hatred in my gaze, for he takes a step back, his body braced as though for attack. But he says only, “Luinar,” and bows.
I feel sick. I reach for the velra on impulse, searching for that life-giving connection which has nurtured me these last many weeks, only to be starkly reminded of its absence. It feels as though I’ve had a limb hacked off.
“She will return to her people,” I say in response to a question he has not asked.
“As soon as she has recovered enough to make the journey, you and Sylcatha will take her to the Between Gate beyond the Luin Stone and on through Wanfriel, back to her world. See that you leave her safely with her own kind, then return here as soon as you may.”
Halamar’s lips part in a wordless breath of sound. He closes them again, sets his jaw. Then finally says in a low voice, “She will leave you then.”
“Did you think she wouldn’t?” I snarl. “You left Tassa, didn’t you?”
He inclines his head in humble acknowledgement. “I hoped she would be stronger than I was,” he admits. “I hoped the song with which the gods have gifted her—”
“The gods bestow their gifts without reason or thought.” I declare this blasphemy coldly.
In that moment I believe it with all my heart.
“We cannot count on such gifts nor build our hopes upon them. We have only our own strength on which to depend and whatever means are within our grasp. And make no mistake, Halamar,” I add, drawing a step closer to my warrior and staring him dead in the eye.
“I intend to grasp hard. We have come this far—the time is now. We will drag our enemies from that tower, sear the flesh from their bones, and scatter their ashes to the four winds. My purpose is clear, my path set before my feet. I will let no other concerns blind me to the duty which is my birthright.”
Halamar meets my gaze without blinking. He has no answer to give, nothing to offer other than a short bow.
Disgusted, I turn away from him, march through the encampment without a set goal in mind, simply the desire to create distance between myself and the person even now resting inside that dakath.
“Taar!” Halamar’s voice arrests me. I stop, but do not turn, and his words glance off my iron-set shoulders.
“Taar, do not think too harshly of her. Perhaps you hate her now. Perhaps it is the only way. But in time to come, try to offer her whatever grace you can spare.” He is silent for a moment before adding, “To be hearttorn is a terrible fate.”
Spitting out a curse, I march on. There are people all around me, warriors at their campfires, sharpening their blades. Some call out to me, but I cannot understand their words, cannot see their faces. I have but one thought in my head now, and no room to spare for any of their concerns.
At some point Elydark joins me. I become aware of him, walking at my side, and of the song trying to reach through to my heart.
I block up my ears, block up my soul, unwilling to receive that melody.
I do not want comfort. Not with this withered velra hanging from my breast, not with this broken rune burning my skin.
Not with my heart hewn nearly in two, nothing but a few strands of straining flesh holding it together. I don’t need comfort. I need action.
I need oblivion.
So I leave behind the Licornyn encampment and, without pausing, progress in among the Noxaurians.
I pass between their fires and through their ranks.
Upon seeing my face, not a single fae dares so much as growl at me.
I am not accosted until I reach Ruvaen’s pavilion, where two guards move to interfere with my progress.
I scarcely register their existence. My arm lashes out, grabbing one by the throat, throwing him into the second, so that they both topple like felled trees.
Then I throw open the tent flap and step into the luxurious space within.
Ruvaen looks up from the sword he’s sharpening across his knee. He smiles. “Ah! Taar. So you have allowed yourself to be torn away from your pretty bride’s bedside at last. Is she feeling any better after her little misadventure?”
“Give it to me.”
Ruvaen’s smile falters. “Give what to you? Come, my friend, I can’t go bestowing gifts if I know not what gifts you demand.”
“Give me the virulium.” I hold out my trembling hand. Darkness closes in on the edges of my sight, a black tunnel through which I can see nothing other than Ruvaen’s firelit face. “Now.”
Another voice echoes in my mind, blending in weird harmony with mine: “Give me to drink, Taarthalor. Pour out blood unto me.”