SoulFire (WarBride #4)

Chapter 1

ILSEVEL

I am lost in a world of pain.

It’s not unlike returning to the Unformed Lands—disembodied, almost soulless.

There’s nothing about me that exists other than pain, radiating from that single pinpoint of existence in my gut.

Perhaps I should be grateful. Were that point not so singular, so exquisitely intense, I would simply disintegrate into a million particles of glinting light and float away from this world.

The connections which keep me bound to this world are fragile indeed.

But that pain acts as a sort of anchor, binding me to this reality, whether I want it or not.

Magic coats my skin. Now and then I float back into a state of awareness keen enough to recognize it, that sensation of energy rippling over my flesh, sinking into my soul and being.

I can almost feel the individual, scratched-out letters of a written spell, like insect legs crawling all over me in a swarm.

This is Miphates’ magic, powerful within its specific limitations.

I hate it—hate that it prevents my body from following its natural course.

Mortal frames were not meant to endure such wounds.

Why can I not just die, why will they not let me die?

Even the hearttorn song of the velrhoar is dulled to almost nothing, the strands of disharmony which had tormented me are faint whispers on the edge of my awareness.

Nothing else matters anymore. Nothing but pain, pain, pain.

Sometimes my soul struggles up out of the mire and strains to leave behind this body of torment, floating in the ether.

From this angle I become aware of the physical world below me, shadowy, indistinct shapes of movement and matter.

It’s difficult to see without eyes, but I learn to make sense of the shadows.

Two large beings, a little clearer than the rest, flicker in and out of my awareness even as they flicker in and out of various dimensions of existence.

The morleth—monstrous steeds of the troll warriors, interdimensional darksteppers.

What they carry between them in a sling is a little harder to discern, but I come to understand that it is .

. . me. My own body, wrapped up tightly in spellwork, limp and unconscious.

The morleth move with a liquid grace, far smoother than horses, smoother even than licorneir, which prevents my suffering frame from being more jostled than necessary.

Small blessings, I suppose—though hovering above them as I do, I feel less than grateful.

There’s a gleam of broken magic on my breast, down underneath the network of Miphates’ spells.

In the mortal world I never saw it so clearly, but from this vantage it becomes the most real thing about that fragile body of mine: the ruehnar mark.

Even as a disembodied spirit, I radiate a frown.

I thought that mark was wiped clean away on silmael night, when I rejected Taar and our marriage bond.

And yet the mark remains—not clear and shining, but broken.

I don’t pretend to understand it, don’t want to understand it. I simply want to be turned loose, to separate myself from all those hurts, all those conflicting spells. I pull against everything holding me in place, feel the strain in those bindings. But I cannot get free. Not yet, at least.

Another indistinct form of flickering life moves, coming to stand between the morleth and gaze down at my frail body where it lies in the sling.

I send my spirit coiling about that form, which causes a shudder to ripple down his spine.

I know him: the Shadow King. Tall and dark and imposing, the troll to whom my father sold me, the monster who was meant to be my bridegroom.

Strange that, after all this, after all my desperate efforts to separate myself from him, here I am—back in his clutches.

More helpless than I’ve ever been. If it weren’t for the pain pulsing through my body, I would be afraid.

But I can’t manage enough strength for fear just now; there isn’t room enough within my flimsy existence.

A voice rumbles from that looming figure, directed at my body, but resonant enough to float through the shimmering ether and strike my spiritual awareness.

“Hold on, Ilsevel,” he growls, like long-buried stone.

“I’ll get you the help you need. Hold on a little longer.

” He is silent for a time—I don’t know how long—contemplating my helpless state.

Then he seems to shake his head, and I even catch a glimpse of long white hair moving over his shoulders.

“How is it that you are alive? After everything, after all we’ve been through. ”

Then he bends over my unconscious form, and his impossibly deep voice somehow deepens in a harsh but urgent whisper: “Faraine would want you to keep going. Faraine would urge you to be strong. Do it for her, if you can. I beg of you.”

Faraine? What in the name of all the gods does the Shadow King have to do with my oldest sister? Why should he care if—

A fresh burst of agony ripples through me, pulsing from the ruehnar, which meets the Miphates’ spell network in a crash of conflicting magics. It’s so sharp, it drags me out of the ether back down into my body, and I am lost again for a time.

When I manage to fight my way back out again, pulling through the grasping fingers of pain and into the open space above my body, I discover another indistinct figure standing over me. Though I cannot discern his features, everything about his presence radiates shock.

“Mage Yalanue is a damned idiot,” a voice—strangely familiar, but I cannot place it—echoes out from that figure, a hollow, distant sound. “This stasis spell is unravelling far too quickly.”

A series of movements follow this statement.

I have a vague impression of a book being opened, a pen scratching.

Energy sparks in the air around me, drawn through layers of reality, summoned by the shaping of words on a page.

Mortal magic, but of an unusual variety.

There’s darkness to this energy, potent and sizzling, that makes my very soul curl away from it with dread.

It surrounds the indistinct figure of the man, channeled at his command and shaped into spellwork.

He guides that darkness, enwrapping my body, dragging my soul back down into it.

I want to shout, to protest. But though I struggle, I cannot fight that power.

Wriggling, screaming, struggling, I am pulled relentlessly through the ether, entombed in my own mortal flesh.

It is through slitted, heavy eyelids that I see the face of the mage hovering over me.

He turns to the enormous form of the Shadow King.

“I don’t know what to make of that broken rune mark.

It is nothing like Miphates’ magic. But, as Yalanue told you, there is a witch known to be in residence at Beldroth.

She may be able to help, to keep that rune-poison from spreading.

As for the flesh wound, my own magic should suffice to keep the pain and infection at bay, allow her body to heal. ”

He's not lying. Already I can feel a numbing relief spreading through my body, beginning at that place in my gut where the sword-point entered. In the moment I am too grateful to care that my entire body crawls with hell-born magic. If they won’t let me die, then I must be grateful for whatever respite they offer.

I sink back into unconsciousness, lulled by the swinging sling in which my body lies.

Occasionally the pain slips through, as sharp as though the blade has plunged once more through my abdominal wall.

For the most part, however, the mage’s spellcraft works.

In that lulled state of enchantment, I can’t even remember how I ended up in this place.

Vague and unreal images play across my addled mind—flashes of light, color, shadow, and song.

Nothing my mind can grasp, nothing to help me form any sense of reality.

It’s easier to drift away again, to let the magic carry me far away.

I don’t come to again until I hear my father’s voice speaking my name: “Ilsevel?”

I struggle to open my eyes, but manage only a single cracked eyelid and a blurry impression of the world.

I seem to be held in a pair of massive arms, cradled against a rock-hard chest. I discern a mound of black before me which slowly takes clearer shape as a rider in a dark cloak on horseback.

There are others, many others, more than I can count. My mind simply cannot take them all in.

“Is it really her?” my father speaks again.

His voice is rough, befitting of the man of action he is, but edged with an unfamiliar vulnerability.

Larongar is a warrior who would not hesitate to set himself up in opposition to fae monsters and kings, a man who bargained with the gods themselves, and wrestled a dragon to achieve his goals.

He is not a man given to weakness of any kind.

“Ask your mage,” the Shadow King replies in harsh tones.

Larongar turns slightly, addressing one of the other shadowy figures I cannot quite see. “Well, Artoris?”

“It is,” comes the answer. And this time I recognize that voice as well. It’s one which has haunted my dreams for many years, which held the power to excite my blood with passion, with hope. Upon hearing it now, however, I feel my very soul chilled like frost. “It is Ilsevel. The true Ilsevel.”

Larongar curses bitterly. “And how did you come by her, Shadow King? Have you had her all this time?”

“I have not. The gods saw fit to place her in my care.”

“Yes? And what have you done to her?” Rage colors that powerful voice, a raw redness in the atmosphere, breaking through the heaviness of the spell encasing me. “Have you punished her for her sister’s deceit? It was not her fault, you know.”

“I know where the fault lies on that score,” the Shadow King answers through clenched teeth. “Ilsevel sustained a wound at the battle of Evisar. A magicked wound, requiring witch-healing.”

The vague dark image which is my father on horseback waves an arm in a commanding gesture. “Hand her over then. I know a witch. I’ll take her there at once.”

“Send the Miphates with me,” the Shadow King replies, “and I will give her to you.”

“No!” the king snarls. “You do not make demands of me, boy. You signed that agreement with your own name, sealing your fate. You’ve taken your bride and had your fun with her. Now you’ll do as you vowed.”

“I signed an agreement for Ilsevel,” the Shadow King replies. “She is mine. To do with as I please.”

“You already have Faraine.”

“But the name on the contract was Ilsevel.”

“Faraine is Ilsevel!” my father bellows. “By the laws of our land, she took her dead sister’s name. She fulfills the contract.”

“But her sister is yet living. By your own laws, Larongar, this girl is mine.”

Silence follows. My darkened eyes cannot make out my father’s face, though I see him turning in his saddle, as though seeking help from those around him.

No help comes, however, and finally he addresses the Shadow King once more.

“Send her to Beldroth. Let the witch treat her wounds. She’s no good to you dead. ”

“She is no good to me alive either.”

“You may take her home, a healed wife.”

“I have a wife.”

“You’ll have two!”

“I need mages. Not wives.”

Another long silence. My fate hangs in the balance, but somehow I cannot find the strength to care.

I only want to stay safe inside this cocoon of dark magic, hidden from the suffering which stalks me.

What difference does it make which of these kings carries me away in triumph?

My existence will not be materially altered. Only let me not be in pain.

“I lost her once,” my father speaks again at last, his voice heavy.

“I thought it would kill me. But it did not.” He breathes out a long exhale, and the indistinct shadow of his bulk seems to straighten, massive shoulders squaring.

“Do what you will with her, King Vor. I do not release you from your vows. Nor will I send my mages to your world.”

So does my father declare the limit of his love for me.

His love is real, yes—but a love he is ready and willing to sacrifice for greater goals.

It is a truth I have always known, and I feel neither surprise nor sorrow.

What have I to sorrow over? Just let me remain numb. Oh gods in heaven, let me remain numb!

One of the Shadow King’s people growls in his ear, urging for violence in a language I do not know.

But he looks down at me. Though I cannot see his face clearly through my slitted eyelids, I sense an unexpected wave of compassion mingled with his intense frustration.

He answers in the same growling language, and when his warrior tries to protest, he interrupts forcefully and barks a command.

I see the warrior salute, turn, and bellow in the harsh troldish tongue: “Drag-or, ortolarok!”

“Rhozah!” they respond. Commotion fills the air as mounted trolls form up, ready to march away, out of this world. And will they carry me with them? I can summon no more than a mild curiosity even as my head rests against the troll king’s shoulder.

“You can’t do this, Vor,” my father protests. “The alliance stands! I order you to honor it by the power of your written name.”

The Shadow King ignores him. Cradling me with uncharacteristic tenderness, he watches until all his people have passed through the arch of what I guess to be a Between Gate, crossing from this reality into another.

It takes time—his fighting force is numerous, all the monsters he brought with him to break the siege on Evisar and destroy the hopes of all the brave Licornyn who followed their king there in a last, desperate attempt to reclaim their decimated world.

I think upon it dispassionately; faces flit through my mind without calling to life any emotion.

No pain can get through this dark spell, not even the pain of their losses.

It is merely something which has happened, far away, to people who might as well be strangers.

At last, when every other troll has passed through the gate, the Shadow King turns to my father once more.

He strides toward him where he sits on his tall horse and, with a heave of his powerful arms, all but tosses me into Larongar’s hands.

My father catches me, draws me into his lap, draped limp across the saddle.

“Your daughter Ilsevel,” King Vor says. “Returned to you. Untouched. Our contract is now void, Larongar. We shall not see one another again.”

And so the man who was meant to be my husband passes out of my life altogether, leaving me wrapped in dark spells and my father’s arms. My mind, exhausted, slips gratefully back into oblivion.