Chapter 22 TAAR
TAAR
Revived by the air of his own world, despite the corruption of the vardimnar which seethes in the atmosphere, Elydark makes tremendous speed across the landscape.
He bypasses the Agandaur Fields, taking a longer route to avoid even a chance glimpse of Evisar, and I appreciate this unspoken decision.
I don’t think I can bear the sight of my second great loss and ultimate ruination.
Not yet. Possibly not ever. Even the joy of reclaiming my bride cannot assuage that pain.
We meet no one on our way. It is now long since the tribes of Licorna fled back across Cruor and split off to their own territories on the fringes of our world.
The only thing which hinders our progress is the occasional fall of the vardimnar.
It is still less frequent than usual, sometimes not falling for several days at a time, and I don’t know if this is a good sign or an indication that the Miphates are building up to something truly terrible within their stolen tower.
Every time another bolt of darkness falls, I sit astride my licorneir, holding Ilsevel as she buries her face against my heart.
And I close my eyes against the temptation to peer more deeply into hell.
But the temptation is there, whispering along with the virulium in my blood. Urging me to cast myself into the darkness, to become one with it.
“Give me to drink, Taarthalor,” it hisses and seethes. “I will give you vengeance against your enemies.”
You’ve promised me vengeance many times before, I respond, even knowing as I do how dangerous it is to interact with that voice. Your promises are nothing.
“This time will be different. This time, my strength in your soul will carry you through the ranks of your foes and give you the victory you crave.”
I know how hollowly that promise rings. And yet I want to believe it—I want to believe the way before me is so simple, so clear. A little sacrifice on my end, the damnation of my soul, seems a worthy price to pay for the salvation of my entire world.
So I bow my head, bury my nose in Ilsevel’s hair, and hold on to the remnants of my sanity.
She and Elydark together create a powerful anchor.
The song of my licorneir shimmers around us as a shield, and the love I bear for this woman envelops us in endless golden velra.
I will not let myself be deceived. Not again, never again.
The vardimnar always lifts eventually, and we continue, day after day, moving at Elydark’s blistering pace across the desolate landscape.
Each night, when we stop for rest, Ilsevel and I cling to each other with increasingly frantic desire and need.
One might think I would become sated on her .
. . but no. The nearer we draw to my home, the nearer we draw to what I suspect will be the end of everything for both of us, the more desperately I crave her and her song of pleasure.
I could listen to that song again and again, every night of my life, and never once cease to marvel at the sweetness of it.
I hope the gods will grant me that grace, though I know even now it cannot be a long life before me.
At long last, we come within sight of the Morrona once more, and I bid Elydark halt.
We stand still for a time, gazing out upon that river across to the land beyond the vardimnar’s reach.
I can imagine from here that I see the rise on which Elanlein stands, just about convince myself that I perceive the glow of the ilsevel blossoms. But for the first time, that sight does not fill me with renewed hope and the joy of coming home.
Dread squeezes my heart in a vicelike grip.
“I wish I could spare you whatever is coming,” I murmur close to my wife’s ear.
She nods, silent.
“If you will give me permission,” I continue, voicing an idea which has grown over the last several days, “I would like to take you to Tarhyn Tribe first. Sylcatha, as chieftain, will welcome you there, I know. You will have friends, a powerful ally, and—”
“Why are we wasting time with this discussion?”
I bite back my words with a rueful smile. It’s not as though I expected anything less from her. Slowly I ease out a breath from my lungs. “Ilsevel, you know the elders may call for my death.”
“Yes.” She nods once, her gaze fixed firmly ahead. “Then I will die with you.”
“They may call for my exile only. But they will surely demand your death.”
“Then you will fight them all and go down valiantly,” she replies. “And I will still be killed.”
I slip my arm around her waist, holding her close, breathing her in. My body trembles with the desire to protect her and the agonized knowledge that I cannot.
She wraps her hands around herself to grasp my arms. Her fingers tremble, but her grip is firm. “Is there no scenario you foresee that doesn’t end with our deaths?”
I shake my head. “But if you were to go to Sylcatha—”
“What if we both went to Sylcatha? What if you did not return to the Hidden City without friends at your back? What if, instead, you had the might of Tarhyn Tribe behind you?”
It’s an idea which has occurred to me more than once during this long trek. While I doubt Sylcatha holds me in high regard, she feels an intense loyalty to Ilsevel, her maelar. She might be convinced . . . particularly at the prospect of laying claim to Elanlein and the ilsevel blossoms.
“I cannot return to the Hidden City with an invasion force,” I answer firmly. “They are my own people. My family. My home.”
“Damn,” Ilsevel whispers, as though releasing a last hope. But she doesn’t try to argue.
After a little while, I nudge Elydark forward, and we continue on to the river. Still without a plan between us.
There’s always the chance that the Hidden City is no longer where I left it.
I gave Tassa explicit instructions before setting out on the campaign: if I did not return, she was to pack up the dakaths and make for the nearest Between Gate, leaving this world behind forever.
A last desperate march to save our people from the vardimnar and the encroachment of the Unformed Lands.
I’m not convinced she would actually listen, not if Halamar informed her that I was not, in fact, dead on the battleground of Evisar, but merely galivanting off to the mortal world in pursuit of my lost bride.
Something tells me she will choose to wait for my eventual return, unwilling to give me up for lost.
“I should have left you with your own people,” I say, even as Elydark climbs the far shore of the Morrona, his cloven hooves finding firm footing on the rocky bank. “I should never have brought you back here. At least you wouldn’t then face death by imminent execution.”
“No,” Ilsevel acknowledges with a bitter laugh. “Only torture by a murderous husband. I think I prefer execution, if it comes right down to it. More straightforward. More honest.”
Brave words, but I hear the tremble in her voice. If only I had convinced her to go to Sylcatha! Perhaps I should not have given her a choice in the matter. She might hate me for it, but if she lived, I think I could bear her hatred . . .
Elydark. My soul sings along the connection I share with my licorneir.
Vellar? he answers at once, attuned to my voice.
If . . . if the worst happens . . . if they turn against us, I want you to carry Ilsevel away.
Away from you?
Away from me, from danger. Away from harm.
I will carry you both.
Yes, if possible. But I may have to remain, to guard your escape.
Then I will remain with you.
No, Elydark. You must save her. For me.
Even as I sing the words, an image flashes through my mind.
I see myself, a young boy once more, standing in the courtyard of my father’s palace, while an atmosphere of uncertainty and brimming terror grips the land.
Mother stands before me, her hands holding the noble head of her mighty licorneir—Mahra.
“You must carry them, my love,” Mother’s voice echoes in my mind.
“You must flee this place as hard, as fast as you can. Get them to safety.” Then she rested her forehead briefly against the great licorneir’s cheek.
“You know my love for you. Beyond words, beyond song. And I know you love me too. It is by that love I beg you—do this last great act for me. Save my children. Save them from what is coming.”
And so my life comes full-circle, as I find myself standing in my mother’s shoes, here at what is most likely my end.
Sylcatha is Ilsevel’s friend, I continue, my song burning with the fire of urgency. Ilsevel won’t thank you, and she won’t want to go. She’ll do everything in her power to stop you. But you must do this for me even so.
And how do you intend to force her to leave you against her will? Remember, Vellar: we have both seen her leap from the back of a galloping licorneir before now.
Leave that to me, I sing back. But promise, Elydark.
Promise you will do as I ask. Resistance simmers in his voice, a wordless argument which burns through our connection.
But I will not back down before his anger or his sorrow.
It is the last great act of love you can commit for me, I say, closing my eyes and leaning into the song with everything I have. Do you love me?
Vellar, you know I do.
Then you must promise me this.
Elydark tosses his head, horn flashing, and utters a noise like a growl, but deeper, more resonant. A sound only made by licorneir.
Ilsevel partially turns, casting me a look over her shoulder. “What is wrong?”
My spine stiffens. “Did you . . . hear something?”
She turns more fully, scowling up at me. “I can hear the two of you singing back and forth to each other. I don’t know what you are saying, but I feel it. Whatever it is you’re telling him, it’s making Elydark angry. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him.”
I inhale slowly, choosing my words with care. “He does not like our current course of action.”
She snorts. “He is a wise and insightful being.”