Chapter 8 - TAAR
TAAR
Air knives in and out of my lungs with every breath I take, as Elydark and I make our way across the mortal world.
It is unpleasant to return to this magic-depleted reality so soon since our last campaign.
The atmosphere is far too thin, and with every passing moment, I feel vitality seeping out of my body.
I can manage it with better grace, however, than my licorneir; I, at least, am ibrildian, with a trace of mortal blood flowing in my veins. But Elydark is a being of pure magic. He does not belong in this world, and the longer he remains in it, the worse it goes for him.
He never offers a single word of complaint, however.
He sets his sights on the road before him, giving me all the speed and power he can summon, eating up the miles beneath his cloven hooves.
We travel mostly by night, covering great distances sheltered by long shadows, shielded from curious mortal eyes.
We avoid all towns or populated areas, keeping to rural stretches of lonely country where no one will glimpse us.
Mortal eyes cannot look upon the glory of a licorneir, and would perceive no more than a phantom image, half-dream, half-nightmare.
So long as I am mounted, I should remain for the most part invisible to their gazes as well, but that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
The last thing I need is for rumor of a Licornyn’s presence in this country to spread.
One night I leave Elydark in the deep shadows of a family of conifers and creep into a farmhouse.
Moving with great stealth, I remove a long, colorless cloak from its peg by the door, and vanish back into the night unseen.
I need a mortal disguise of some kind if I am to move freely in this world.
My bare chest and Licornyn garb will not go unnoticed among the denizens of Gavaria.
I stash the cloak in Elydark’s saddle bags, ready to be used at need.
And so we continue.
Though I’ve never been to the seat of King Larongar’s kingdom, I have a general idea where Beldroth Castle lies, having campaigned in this world before.
More often than not, I find myself reaching for the velra bond to guide me to my wife.
But it is gone, of course. Or, at the very least, reduced to such a delicate filament, I cannot sense it.
When she ended our marriage on silmael night, that should have broken the bond entirely.
Still, something had held on, against all odds.
That connection between us was so profound, it may have found a way to reforge in the end, if given the chance.
Until I stabbed her on the battlefield. No bond can survive such a betrayal.
I grind my teeth and set my face to the wind, which blows so harshly against me, flowing over Elydark’s body in ripples as we cut across the darkened countryside.
I will find her. Whether she lives or dies, I will find her and face the truth of what I have done.
Anything beyond that I cannot imagine. I see nothing, no future either real or imagined, only a great blank before me.
The only thing that matters now is to know if she lives and, if she does, to throw myself at her feet and beg her forgiveness for what I have done.
So I ride on.
Elydark struggles more with each passing day.
The longer we are away from Wanfriel and the magic-rich air of that forest, the more difficult he finds existence.
His pace, at first tremendous, slows, and the fire of his soul fades.
By the time we’ve traveled in the mortal world for five days and six nights, he is rundown, struggling for breath.
But still he forges on, offering me everything he has to give, his song a profound burn in my heart, keeping hope alive.
You should return home, Elydark, I sing to him. You are suffering. I can go on alone.
But he answers at once, I will not leave you, Vellar. Come what may, we go on together.
There may be no return for either of us then, I warn grimly.
So be it. If we must meet our end, let it be as one, not as souls divided.
We continue, long hour after long hour, one struggling breath at a time.
At last, in the light of pre-dawn on the verge of the sixth day, the towers of a great castle rise before us, silhouetted against the sky.
Set high on a promontory above a fertile valley, Beldroth dominates the landscape, an impressive, if unlovely, structure of stone and skilled mortal masonry.
A little walled village lies at the feet of the promontory, small buildings clustered under the shelter of that castle.
All is very still and quiet, the denizens only just on the verge of waking to meet the oncoming creep of day.
My heart jolts in my chest at the sight.
Ilsevel. Is she there? Once again I reach into my heart for some sign of the velra only to find nothing.
No reassurance, not even a glimmer of hope.
But surely, if she was returned to this world as Halamar gave witness, her people would have carried her back to the home of her father.
If she lives, she must be behind those forbidding walls.
And before the day’s end, I will discover the truth. One way or another.
I dismount and rest a hand on Elydark’s shoulder. I go on alone from here, my friend, I sing into his mind. It is not safe for you to venture any nearer to that mortal keep.
It is not safe for you either, Vellar, he protests, tossing his horned head.
I cannot argue with that. But though I hate to leave my licorneir behind, his presence will not aid me where I am going.
Stay out of sight, I urge him. At the first sign of trouble, I want you to flee this world, return home with all speed.
He gives me a look. And let myself be made velrhoar? I think not.
I sigh and rest my forehead momentarily against his cheek, heavy with the awareness of how impossible our circumstances have become. For his sake, I wish I could forget her; for his sake, I wish I could turn away now, my heart fixed on my own kind and their many troubles.
But I cannot leave her. Not without knowing, not without seeing with my own eyes that she lives. Not without hearing from her own lips that she wants nothing more to do with me, and her back is turned on Licorna forever.
I will return soon, Elydark, I sing to him, with far more confidence than I feel.
Then, turning once more to face my future, I don the stolen cloak, pull the hood up over my head to hide my fae-pointed ears and shadow my face.
I cannot disguise my warrior’s bulk, which will surely set me apart from average mortals, but that cannot be helped.
Leaving the shelter of the trees, I make my way to the gate surrounding the fortified town.
The nearest gate is tall and topped with iron finials, a sound deterrent against fae invaders.
My ibrildian blood makes me far less susceptible to the ills of iron, however, and I feel no trace of nausea as I draw near.
The sun is just beginning to rise, and beyond the gate, I can hear the many sounds of awakening life within.
Outside all is very quiet, almost desolate.
I pound at the gate with my fist. Perhaps not the most subtle approach, but I’ve not planned anything about this situation.
My goal is simple—to gain admittance, to lay eyes on my wife.
Nothing more. It takes a few more rounds of pounding and a bellowed, “Hallow at the gate!” before I’m rewarded with a scrabbling, a rusty creak, and the window-guard swings open, level with my heart.
A pair of red-rimmed eyes peer out at me.
“State your business,” growls a slightly slurred and almost painfully mortal voice.
Having taken the time to invent no fabrication, I answer simply, “My business is at Beldroth.”
“Ah, come for the wedding, have you?” Those rheumy eyes offer me a critical glance, taking note of my ragged cloak before squinting up into my face, trying to catch some impression of my features beneath my hood. “You wouldn’t happen to have an invitation on your person, now would you?”
His tone is derisive, but I take no notice of the implied slight. My innards have gone strangely cold. “What wedding?” I demand, taking a step closer to the gate and bowing my head to better see the guard’s face through the small, square frame.
A grizzled eyebrow slides up a pockmarked forehead. “You’re having a laugh, right? Everyone knows the king’s daughter is getting married.”
My world tilts wildly off its axis. “Which daughter?” I demand in a low growl. “What is her name?”
The guard takes a step back then seems to remember he’s got half-a-foot of solid wood between him and any potential threat.
He grins then, revealing all the gaps in his yellow teeth.
“Why, Princess Ilsevel, of course. The one what returned from the dead. The whole town’s buzzing about it.
Seems one of them young Miphates mages rescued her from the fae raiders and used his necroliphon magic to bring her back from the dead.
The king—gods bless his reign—is so pleased, he’s giving him the princess’s hand in marriage.
Like something right out of the old tales, that!
You can be sure my missus is pleased, though I don’t think much of it person’ly.
What’s the doings of mages and princesses and the like have to do with us folk, I’d like to know? ”
His words echo dully inside my skull. I cannot make sense of them, cannot force them into a place of comprehension. My mind is fixed on that one idea: Ilsevel. Marrying another. And who might that other be?
“His name.” My voice emerges in a rasp of pain. “This mage, this necroliphon. What is his name?”
“Does it matter?” The guard snuffles, his mustache wriggling. “They’re all the same, those magic-wielders. Can’t tell ‘em apart in their mage’s robes—”
“Tell me.”