Chapter 21 ILSEVEL
ILSEVEL
I may be a fugitive. I may be running from everything familiar and safe, plunging headlong into a world of terrible peril, a world in which I have experienced both pain and grief far beyond anything I thought myself capable of enduring.
It may be that the future which lies before the two of us is uncertain at best and will, most likely, hold utter disaster.
And yet I cannot help it—this freedom which thrills through my veins. To be astride a licorneir once more, with my warlord husband behind me, his arm wrapped around my waist, is a joy I do not deserve.
I feel the strain in both Taar and Elydark after prolonged exposure to mortal air.
They’ve been too long in this world, and Elydark has not tasted the ilsevel blossoms which sustain him in many weeks.
His soulfire is not bright and burning as it should be, and his song is somewhat subdued.
But he leans into Taar, who leans back into him, their souls a source of mutual support and strength, enabling them far beyond what their endurance would be capable of achieving on their own.
It is impossible not to let my thoughts turn to Diira.
Though connection with Taar has renewed me far more than I could have imagined, our reestablished velra does not make up for the loss of my licorneir.
If anything I feel the emptiness where her connection should be more intensely.
I am still hearttorn—nothing can change that.
That loss, that scar in my soul, will be a defining characteristic of my existence for the rest of my life.
Closing my eyes, I sink down into the memories which have been so recently reclaimed from ensorcelled fog.
Memories of Diira, which are difficult to face.
But in those memories I hear again Diira’s song.
Sometimes I hear it so clearly, as though my licorneir is even now singing in my ear.
Her spirit is alive . . . somewhere out there in the universe.
Perhaps she has been reunited with Ashika, her former rider.
If so, she is not Diira anymore, but Nyathri, her heart restored.
And the two of them ride together at tremendous speed across the heavens, scattering stardust in their wake.
A happy thought . . . and one which brings with it a dart of jealousy.
It is difficult to imagine Diira, my Diira, with anyone else.
Because Diira was always mine and only mine.
But Diira was Nyathri first. And who knows how many other names she bore before that one?
Her soul may even now find peace with many generations of lost riders, her song more bounteous and beautiful than it ever could be while bound to this world.
Yes, this must be the truth, I tell myself when, at night, we stop to rest under the stars.
After Taar and I turn to each other for comfort, after we collapse at last to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. Then does my gods-gift awaken most keenly.
As I lie replete, my body still vibrating gently with aftershocks of pleasure, I can almost believe I hear the stars themselves singing, can even pick out my licorneir’s multitudinous voice from among them.
I am left behind. And it hurts. It will always hurt.
But there is beauty in this world still.
So I tuck in close to my husband’s side and rest in his embrace.
Day after long day we travel, stopping only for me to eat, drink, and refresh myself.
Taar is very conscientious of my needs, more so than he was when we first traveled together, and I was the unwanted burden he simply couldn’t shake.
Now he treats me like a rare treasure to be handled with such care.
“I’m not a straw doll, you know,” I tell him irritably when he commands a halt only a few hours after we begin traveling one morning. “I won’t fall apart at the first breeze.”
“You are still healing, my love,” he insists, reaching up to help me down from the saddle. “I don’t want to set back your progress.”
“I’m plenty healed.” I pout and fold my arms. “We should keep riding.”
But he simply plucks me by the waist and pulls me down to him. I squeal in protest, but my squealing quickly turns to moans of sweet delight when his lips find the curve of my shoulder. Perhaps this stop isn’t just for my wellbeing after all.
Elydark wanders away to a discreet distance.
I suppose we’re neither of us in much of a hurry, I think somewhat ruefully an hour later, a little sore and very satisfied from my husband’s vigorous attentions.
We have so many things still to discover about each other and, quite possibly, very little time in which to make those discoveries.
Perhaps my husband isn’t as anxious to reach home as he should be, but I’m not complaining.
It’s strange, though, that my father hasn’t sent people after us.
Days of travel, and neither Elydark nor Taar has detected any sign of pursuit.
I don’t know how to feel about this. Nor do I know what to think of what my mother did for us.
Queen Mereth and I have never been close, as she sought to mold me into the useful princess my father expected me to be.
That she would go so far as to use violence against her husband to give me a chance to escape .
. . ? It’s difficult to fathom. Is it possible my mother loved me all along?
Is it possible she wanted better things for her children, but simply did not see how it could be?
There are many miles of lonely countryside and rhythmic hoofbeats in which to ponder such questions. As for my father’s neglect in hunting us down—well, perhaps he simply can’t be bothered. Not again, not after all the trouble I’ve given him. He’s probably glad to be well rid of me at last.
Why does this idea fill me with such sadness?
Why does a part of me wish . . . he cared?
Cared enough to try, even though it would undoubtedly make my life more difficult.
I’ve spent so much of my life confident in my father’s preference for me, believing that preference to be love.
Now I’ll never know. And while I’m glad to be rid of him, glad to be rid of Beldroth and everything to do with my former life .
. . that doesn’t mean there is no hurt. Or regret.
Even reduced in power, Elydark’s pace is swifter than any horse.
Within a few days, we come to countryside I recognize.
High on a stony outcropping stands the burnt-out ruins of Lamruil’s Temple—the site of destruction where my story first converged so violently with Taar’s.
My gaze travels to the valley below the temple, where I saw him and his shining company of Licornyn riders.
I remember vividly the terror of that moment, followed soon after by the horror of Artoris’s death magic in action.
All is strangely peaceful now, but it is a haunting sort of peace. Will priests ever return to these ruins and worship once more at the shrine? Or will it remain abandoned, a solemn monument to this evil war between fae and mortals?
Elydark finds his way without hesitation across the countryside. Between two hills sits the town of Cramaer—the very town where Taar once tried to deposit his unwanted warbride. I had suspected our destination, but know now for certain.
“I thought the Between Gate you used to pass this way before was compromised?” I say as we make our way along a dirt rode toward a strand of trees.
“It was,” Taar replies. “It broke down long ago, probably after the last time we used it. But there will still be a thin place where it once stood. I hope Elydark and I may summon enough strength to open the way to Wanfriel.” I feel his shoulders move in a rueful shrug.
“It won’t be particularly safe. Elydark and I are too depleted to offer our best work.
With luck it will remain open for a minute.
Maybe less.” He breathes out a short huff of air. “We’ll have to be quick.”
I shudder.
In short order, Taar discerns the thin place in the air where the gate once stood. Now that my gods-gift is so much more awake than it was, I can just about sense it myself, might have even been able to find it without Taar and Elydark’s assistance.
“You’ll need to dismount,” Taar tells me. “Elydark will have to enflame, and I don’t want you singed. If we can get the way opened, I will give you a signal. Then you need to act fast—no hesitation, do you understand? Once I give the word, you go through first. We will follow directly behind.”
My experience with world-traveling has not inspired any eagerness to experience it again.
But I nod and let Taar help me down to the ground, then back away several paces, enough space to stay beyond the radius of Elydark’s soulfire.
Taar begins to sing. Immediately I recognize how weak the song is, but almost as quickly hear the power and support Elydark’s song offers in response.
The licorneir ignites, just as Taar warned, fire spreading over his red haunches in rippling sheets of heat and power.
Has he been holding this in reserve, just for this moment?
I brace myself on the balls of my feet, watching the empty space in the air, that slight shimmer of reality, which my husband’s song seems to manipulate.
I try not to wonder what will happen if they cannot open it now, try not to worry whether or not Elydark will survive to make another attempt.
I can feel how the mortal air sucks away his magic, lapping it up like water on desert soil while offering nothing in return.
Taar is strained as well, though the human blood in his body is better adapted to this atmosphere.
He might be able to survive in the mortal world, at least a normal span of human years.
But he will suffer greatly without Elydark; I would not wish the hearttorn state on my worst enemy.