Chapter 10 - TAAR
TAAR
Standing there in that outlandish white gown, with the beaded veil covering her face so that her features are completely obscured, she looks like some fantastical being. An angel of legend, come through the mists of many realities to grace the mortal world with her presence.
And yet I know her. I would know her anywhere—the shape of her, that exquisite frame which houses the brilliance of her shining soul.
I have explored every inch of her with such meticulous detail, know every curve, every dip, every slight flaw that makes up the perfection of her being.
I would recognize her anywhere, in any world, under far stranger guise than this.
But when she throws back that veil and glares at me with all the ferocity of a cornered wildcat, the fury in her eyes goes straight through my heart like an arrow.
I see her again in that moment as I saw her on the night of our first meeting.
That defiance in the face of impossible odds, the way she stands her ground, squares her shoulders, and refuses to flinch where others would cower back in terror.
For an instant, I could swear I smell smoke in the air and see flames dancing in the depths of her pupils.
“Zylnala.” Her name—my own name for her—slips from my tongue like a prayer. I feel as though my soul has stepped outside of the physical realm and floats in a space of suspended eternity, here, with her. “Zylnala, I’ve come for you.”
The knot in her brow deepens. “You’ve what?
” Her gaze flashes side-to-side, as though she’s become suddenly aware of how alone she is in this small garden space, how utterly vulnerable.
True to character, she only draws herself straighter, her fingers clenching into fists.
“My father is coming,” she says, fixing me with an imperious stare.
“Even now he and a host of castle guards draw near. If you don’t take yourself back over that wall immediately, sir, I’m going to scream, and you’ll be run through with a dozen lances before you get a second chance. ”
Her words could not strike my ears with more delight if she crooned her love for me.
Ilsevel—my wild spirit. Alive. She doesn’t know me, and she hates me, and she threatens me with violence, but she is alive.
My legs go weak, and I wonder if I’m about to drop to my knees right there and then, like a worshipper in abject supplication.
But there is pain in that stare of hers, pain in that lack of recognition. “Do you not know me?” My lips form the words almost of their own accord, forcing them out from my thickened throat.
“Know you?” The disdain in her tone is a kick to the gut, but one I would welcome again and again. “No, I certainly do not. I don’t go around forming the acquaintance of half-naked vagabonds who vault uninvited over my father’s wall.”
I gaze at her, gaze deep into those flashing dark eyes, which look upon me and see only a stranger, a threat.
Almost unconsciously my hand moves to touch my heart, reaching yet again for the velra connection, which should burn so bright between us.
But it’s gone—we broke it together, she and I.
With our carelessness, our fear, our pain.
What should have sustained us throughout the long years, we turned instead into a means of destruction.
And yet I still feel the place where it should be, almost as profoundly as I once felt the velra itself.
I take a step forward. She startles, tripping on the long train of her white gown as she staggers back from me. “Go away,” she snarls. The low-cut plunge of her neckline reveals the rich swell of her breasts as her breath comes hard and fast. “I mean it! Get out of here, now!”
I stand quite still save for a long, careful inhale through my nostrils. Then, with every effort to gentle my rough tone: “I’ve crossed worlds to find you, my zylnala. I’m not leaving your side. Never again.”
With those words, I push back my hood, revealing my face to her.
Her mouth opens to say something, but the sight of me shocks her to silence.
I suspected it might; here, in the mortal world, the fae blood of my heritage always seems to shine brighter even than it does in my own world, instilling in me a luminous quality, an otherworldliness which is difficult to disguise.
My face and form radiate strength and beauty unmatched by mortal men—not the sculpted perfection of pureblood fae and their glamours, but enough to make a profound impact.
She stares at me, her mouth open, her expression somewhere between aghast and enthralled. Her brow pulls together, her cheek tightens, and her eyes run across my features then slowly down my muscular frame. I search desperately for even a trace of recognition in her gaze. I cannot find it.
Finally her eyes return to my face. She blinks once. “You’re fae.”
The familiarity of the accusation brings a ghost of a smile to my lips. “I am not.”
She points a trembling finger. “Your . . . your ears. They’re pointed. Like a fae.”
Even as she speaks, a sound disturbs the air, picked up by my quick hearing: approaching feet, making their way through the outer garden. Her father and guards, just as she warned. Ilsevel’s threat of my imminent skewering upon lance blades was not idle.
I take another step toward her. She retreats three paces, backing up against the lip of the large water basin, which dominates the center of this private courtyard.
I stop again, uncertain what to say or try.
Why does she not remember me? It would be easier if she saw again the man who let her down, the man who dealt her such an unforgiveable wound.
Instead she looks at me as though I am a complete stranger.
There’s something afoot here. Magic—I sense it, like the stink of rot lingering in walls or under floorboards.
Unseen but unmistakable, a hovering presence in the atmosphere.
Dark magic of necroliphon working, unless I miss my guess.
But something else as well, some other influence, not so putrid, but powerful in its own right.
Just discernable beneath that denser spell.
“Have they ensorcelled you?” I ask, more of myself than of her, though I speak the words out loud. “Have they put a block on your memory?”
Her eyes widen. “You know about that?”
Apparently I’ve struck close to the mark. “I can sense a variety of magics surrounding you, Princess. One of them is a spell to . . .” I hesitate, not liking to speak the truth out loud “. . . to sustain your life against that gut wound.”
She clutches her midriff, as though to keep guts from spilling out then and there, though there is no sign of blood through the white softness of her gown. She stares at me, unspeaking, her breath short and tight.
I extend both hands in a slow, pleading gesture. “They’ve blocked your memories of how you were dealt that blow. Haven’t they? They’ve blocked your memories of . . . of me.”
“You?” She shakes her head. The beading of her veil makes heavy rustling noises as it shifts across her shoulders. “No. No, I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“But you are no stranger to me, Ilsevel. I know you intimately. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself.”
Something in my words seems to reach her.
I can’t quite define it, but the hardness in her gaze softens slightly, even just for a breath.
She’s resistant, though; and how can I blame her?
In her place, I would see only a madman making bizarre and impossible claims. But my words, my tone, the aura of my being, find infinitesimal chinks in her armor and slip through, calling to the reality she has lived but no longer recalls.
It’s still there inside her—everything we once shared, carved deep into her soul.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You say you know me?” Her voice is cold. “All right then. Prove it.”
“What?”
“If you know me so well, prove it. Tell me something about myself. Something a stranger couldn’t know.”
I hesitate. What can I possibly say? The things I know best are things she could not possibly believe.
I know the determination with which she took up practice of the varitar blade, resolved to ride with me into battle, no matter how hopeless the endeavor.
I know the look in her eyes when she faces down a foe far beyond her skill and prowess, her refusal to back down, even when utterly overwhelmed.
I know the timbre of her laugh when she rides like the wind on the back of a burning licorneir, the brilliance of her soul ignited.
I know the sound of her voice when it blends with my own in the triumphant harmony of pure ecstasy.
But none of these are memories we share. Not anymore. None will convince her of the truth. I must go further back, back into places which still exist for her, unhidden by the spell-block.
Casting about me, I search for inspiration. My gaze lands on the statue rising from the water basin—an erotic sculpture carved in marble, beautifully crafted. It calls to mind a quiet moment spent with my wife as we lay together under the stars of Cruor.
“You had a friend. Lyria was her name,” I say, catching her eye once more.
“When you were nine years of age, you and she went searching for the old dungeons of this very castle, and that search brought you here, to this courtyard. You found a secret stairway behind a wall of ivy, which led down into a strange gallery filled with stone carvings of the gods. You wanted to explore, but thought it best to come back with string to mark your way; otherwise, you feared being lost in the labyrinth. When you returned to this courtyard, however, you never found the entrance again, no matter how hard you searched.”