Chapter 29 #2
More people creep out of the shadows all along the edges of the green.
Drawn to Mahra. Drawn to the song which they cannot perceive but which calls to them.
I hear voices murmuring rhythmically, and though I do not know the language, I recognize the cadence of prayer.
Their hearts long for the licorneir, for the bond intended for them by Nornala when She formed this world.
I feel the goodness, the rightness ready to be sung into being here.
But first there is dissonance which must be dealt with.
I look at the would-be chieftain and speak in a loud, commanding voice: “Kildorath, where is my husband?”
His eyes flash to meet mine, limned with pure horror.
I already know Taar is dead—but that look on his face confirms it.
And he, in his turn, hears in my voice the vengeance I have come to claim.
Neither petty nor fueled by rage, but a righteous wrath that must and will be satisfied.
He knows in that moment that all his posturing, all his pretenses of strength and rebellion are as nothing compared to the power now coursing through my soul.
With a sudden surge of flame, he turns Miramenor’s head about. His golden licorneir leaps into motion, ready to carry his rider away into the darkness. But my instincts take over, and I cry out in both voice and spirit, “Wait!”
It isn’t a command—not like those times when I briefly overpowered the connection shared between rider and licorneir. Instead it is a connection, a point of contact channeled through Mahra’s own far more profound link.
Miramenor’s footsteps falter, and his neck arches sharply.
“Will you continue to join with this man who slays his own people?” I cry out in song, the words rippling through ether and air alike. “This man who wields the flame of the licorneir for his own dark purpose?”
Even as Kildorath cries out desperately in the Licornyn tongue, Miramenor turns his head about, looking at me. He is under no compulsion, but I feel the tug between his soul and mind. He stands his ground, meets first my gaze then Mahra’s. And he sings back, as he did before: He is my Vellar.
The intensity of his feeling is overwhelming. He loves his rider deeply, a bond as profound as the very wellsprings of spirit. But he knows what Kildorath asks of him is evil, knows his rider has strayed too far into darkness. Even so he cannot bear to abandon him.
Mahra begins to sing in the language of the licorneir, which is too complex for my comprehension.
I feel the love, however, that sense of calling home.
I hear the pain in her voice, a pain of understanding and simple but profound presence.
A song of sorrow such as can only be sung when the love is real and abiding, a variation on the song she and I shared under the wild Cruor sky.
Miramenor tosses his head. Soulfire laps from his mane and across his shoulders and flanks, flares and flickers as though in a high wind. Then suddenly, it goes out. The proud licorneir drops his head, suddenly dark, his flesh gray as stone.
Kildorath stares down at his mount, his expression momentarily numb. Then his hand presses to his heart as though he’s been shot by an arrow. I feel it too—that strange tension in the air, which I myself have experienced and therefore know to recognize: the breaking of a bond.
An agonized cry rips from Kildorath’s throat, pain and terror combined. He leaps from his licorneir’s back. If I am not mistaken, there are tears on his cheeks. He backs away, shaking his head, speaking his licorneir’s name in a broken, pleading voice.
Then, with a last desperate glance at me and the mighty beast I ride, he turns to run.
Tassa, however, springs away from Halamar at the stake and cries out ferociously: “Kildorath!”
Something in her tone stops him in his tracks. He turns, looks back at her. The varitar blade gripped in his hand begins to tremble.
Tassa strides over to the second licorneir, the one which had fought with Miramenor.
It stands still, breathing heavily, silver blood trailing from its wounds.
Its rider looks down at her and, when she holds up her hand expectantly, only hesitates for a moment before handing her his sword.
It’s too big for Tassa, but she grips it expertly.
Stepping into the clear space of the green, she addresses Kildorath once more, speaking Licornyn words of command.
I cannot hear the song of his soul, not now that it is disconnected from Miramenor. But I feel the fear in him, mingled with resignation. And acknowledgment. Though he draws himself up tall and proud in that wolfskin cloak of his, he has the look of a man who knows he must now pay for his sins.
For a long moment he and Tassa stare at each other across the green.
Then he braces himself and charges.
Tassa meets him. Their blades clash hard at the percussion point, the reverberation shaking their bones.
Part of me wants to spur Mahra forward and interfere. Why should Tassa have him? Kildorath is responsible for Diira’s death, and I suspect he killed Taar as well. But something in Tassa’s face tells me she needs this. So I give it to her and hold myself back.
Even my inexpert eye can see that Tassa is not quite balanced with that too-large blade.
Her footwork is impeccable, however, and her muscles move with a grace I can scarcely fathom.
She sought every day to better herself, to make herself into a worthy warrior for the velarin bond, which never came.
The result is a dizzyingly brilliant swordswoman.
But Kildorath is no mean opponent. He is a seasoned Licornyn warrior, who has survived many bloody campaigns over the years.
The sudden loss of his bond to Miramenor has weakened him, however.
He hacks at Tassa wildly, but she fends him off.
His strength is superior, but she is nimbler, quicker, and fairly dances around him.
Blow after blow they exchange, relentless, remorseless.
Though I understand from Taar that these two were once friends, raised together with Taar and Shanaera in the same household, all trace of that past life is gone from their faces.
Tassa’s blow drives in hard, but Kildorath catches it, deflects it, and throws her off him.
She staggers, her balance compromised, and he sees an opportunity.
With a roar, he pivots suddenly. My stomach jolts.
He leaps, not for Tassa, but for Halamar, still bound to the stake.
Drawing his arm back, he aims a blow to drive his sword through Halamar’s heart.
“No!” I cry. My voice, amplified through Mahra’s ever-present song, ripples through the air and strikes Kildorath like a blow.
He is knocked sideways, staggering, and turns his head sharply toward me, his teeth flashing in a snarl.
With a short shake of his head, he catches his footing, takes a step.
But Tassa is upon him then. She plunges her blade between his shoulder-blades, through his heart.
It is strange to see—Tassa stabbing a man from behind.
I don’t think she would have done it save that he had set his sights on Halamar, who stands defenseless and unarmed.
All thought of honor and fair play vanished from her mind.
She saw only the need to protect her own.
Will she someday look back on this moment with regret?
Somehow, judging by her ferocious expression, I doubt it.
Kildorath stands for a few shocked, struggling breaths.
His chin drops. He gazes down at that sword point, protruding through his shattered sternum.
When Tassa releases her hold on the hilt, whatever support he had, seems to go out from him.
Kildorath sinks to his knees. Tassa, her hair wild, her eyes too bright in her dark face, illuminated in the glow of licorneir fire, walks around to stand before him, to look into his eyes as he dies.
He hauls his head up, his mouth moving as he tries to form words through agony.
“You were never a true chieftain,” Tassa declares, her words low but carrying in the stillness that holds the city green captive. “Go now to your father, Kildorath. Confess to him your shame.”
With that she kicks him over and stands above his body, watching him as he gasps out his final, wet breaths.
I clench my jaw, my stomach twisting tight.
Whatever death Taar suffered . . . it was brutal.
It was so bad, his sister has become this dark angel of vengeance, who can stand over the dying body of a childhood friend and glory in his agonies.
She watched her brother—my husband—suffering.
It is Taar whom she sees now, when her face breaks suddenly into lines of pain, when she spits on her enemy and turns away.
My own eyes fill with tears. I grip Mahra’s mane and lean into her song for support.
The revelations coming my way will be all but unbearable, but I must find a way to bear them.
Until my purpose in this world is complete, I must be strong.
For Taar. For Tassa. For all the frightened people of Rocaryn Tribe, who watch me now with mingled terror and wonder.
I am with you, Vellara, Mahra sings.
Her song enters into the places of deepest pain in my heart and, though it cannot remove them, becomes one with them. That is enough. For now.
Tassa drops the varitar blade abruptly and strides back to Halamar.
Swiping up a knife she had left on the ground near his feet, she sets back to work cutting away the black chaeora cords.
The warrior, who had been fighting Kildorath in the moments before my arrival, dismounts and moves to help her, but she snarls something in vicious Licornyn, and he backs away, head bowed.