Chapter 29 #4
Onoril is gone, as is the last luinar. But the power of those ancient days lives on through me, through Mahra. Power enough to break the vicelike grip of Cruor, to deliver this world from the Hand of Darkness? I don’t know.
But I will give my last breath to find out.
I do not speak the Licornyn language, so Halamar stands beside me, his voice bellowing out the interpretation.
“People of Rocaryn!” I say, and wait for Halamar’s echoes to fade before continuing.
“I have summoned you here to give you all a chance.
Any soul here who wishes to form a velarin bond may step forward.
The licorneir will choose, and the bond formed will last through this lifetime and beyond.
It is both your solemn duty and your right, but as your maelar, I will not force this choice on any of you.
“Know this, however: those who form the bond will ride with me and Mahra. Ride in pursuit of the dead, who have taken the body of your luinar and mean to desecrate it.” My voice breaks.
I take a moment to compose myself, drawing on Mahra’s song for support.
“We will not let that desecration take place.”
When these last words are spoken by Halamar, his voice is nearly drowned out in the shout that goes up from Rocaryn Tribe.
My throat thickens. These are the very people who, in their fear, turned Taar over to Kildorath and Shanaera.
But he loved them . . . so I will love them.
And I will give them this chance at redemption.
At first no one steps forward. Though they long for the licorneir, fear still holds them at bay.
Then one figure strides forth. Bold and tall and clear-eyed—Tassa.
Of course Tassa. Everyone there knows how hard she fought to make herself worthy of a bond which never came.
Now, before this host of velrhoar licorneir, she sees once again a hope she thought had been taken from her forever.
Whatever else may come, she will not miss this chance.
She stands in the space of empty ground between the people and the licorneir. And there she waits . . . and I, from Mahra’s back, hear the song going out from her, searching for a harmony which she does not know but which she will recognize if ever she hears it.
I hear it before she does. From the depths of the herd, one broken song sings out brighter than the rest. The pain of loss is still violent in this licorneir’s soul, but she pushes forward nonetheless, drawn by a compulsion she cannot resist. She is a large, dappled beast, with a horn much notched from many battles.
Scars pattern her flanks and shoulders, each a badge of honor ferociously earned.
She pushes her way through the herd, and they part to make a path.
Soon she stands before Tassa—and I hear at once how well the two of them are matched.
The black flame soulfire of the hearttorn licorneir reaches out to the vivid flame of Tassa’s song.
They twine together, the one blending into the other, becoming a new hue for which I have no name.
Suffering and loss, love and hope, all mingled in triumphant chorus.
Tassa stretches out her hand, places it on the licorneir’s forehead, just below the horn’s base.
The licorneir stands still a moment. Then, extending her muscular neck, she touches her muzzle to Tassa’s forehead, a startlingly gentle gesture.
They stand like so for a shining moment, and my gods-gifted perception watches the aura of light and music surrounding them as the velarin is formed.
With a glad cry, Tassa springs suddenly forward, grabs a fistful of fiery mane, and leaps onto the licorneir’s back.
The beast rears, roaring in triumph, a distinctly licorneir sound, more tiger than horse.
When her forehooves hit the ground again, she whirls and, with Tassa clinging to her back, they set off at a furious gallop, through the licorneir herd and off across the plain, heading for the Morrona.
I look down at Halamar. “It would seem my sister-in-law doesn’t mean to wait for the rest of us.”
He tilts a wry eyebrow and shrugs. “Will you join her?”
I shake my head. Part of me wants to sing out to Mahra, to urge my mount to carry me after Tassa. But my work here is not yet accomplished.
Sitting up a little straighter, I look out upon the Rocaryn Tribe once more. “Who else?” I ask, indicating the licorneir herd with a sweep of my arm. “Be bold, people of Licorna! Claim your velarin!”
A surge of excitement passes through the tribe.
Old men and their ancient wives step out from among the shadows.
Small children, scarcely big enough to sit astride a great licorneir’s back, rush into the herd.
The great beasts bow their heads and extend their songs, soul discovering like soul, regardless of age.
I see a blind man and a woman with twisted feet, both embracing licorneir, who sing the harmonies they have never dared believe could be theirs.
The bereft and the lost, the fearful and the shamed, all find a match somewhere amid that host.
But my eye focuses on one figure in particular. Halamar . . . walking forward slowly, uncertainly, toward a licorneir I do not at first recognize. This beast does not seem to have any soulfire, and his flesh looks as though it is made from stone.
With a lurch in my heart, I realize: it’s Miramenor.
I don’t know if it is possible for him to form another bond, having chosen to break the bond with his rider, to leave Kildorath abandoned.
It is not the way of licorneir. He has no song, not even a hearttorn song, but stands on the edge of the gathering, his head low, his spirit diminished to the point of death.
And yet, something in him draws Halamar.
My gods-gift senses the hearttorn warrior’s song reaching out, touching that hard exterior.
Finding crevices in the entombing stone of Miramenor’s soul, sinking down to where a star’s heart yet burns.
His hand, outstretched, comes to rest on the licorneir’s forehead.
Miramenor responds. A light ignites in his dead eyes, and he lifts his head, looks at the man standing before him.
Softly, more a whisper than a sound, he begins to sing.
Immediately Halamar’s song finds the harmony.
They sing together, a tentative song at first, but growing stronger by the moment.
The stone begins to sluff away from Miramenor’s flesh, revealing soulfire.
Is it well with them, Mahra? I ask, almost too afraid to hope.
But the mother of all licorneir gazes upon the sight, and I feel the rightness humming through her soul. It shall be well with them. All manner of things shall be well.
Bond after bond is formed, and yet there are so many licorneir remaining unbonded.
To my surprise, I spy Elydark among them.
The great red licorneir stands with his brothers and sisters, but does not put himself forward to form a new velarin.
The pain of his hearttorn soul may find ease in Mahra’s song, but it is still too harsh, too fresh.
He catches my eye. For a moment we share a song quite apart from any other in the world. A loss which unites us, and yet a loss we must each suffer alone.
When all but the very youngest Rocaryn have formed their bonds and mounted—even the nursing mothers, with babes strapped to their breasts—I urge Mahra forward.
She gallops back and forth in front of the host, sends her song hurtling over them, not in words, but in pure power.
In that power shines meaning, to which every soul, both Licornyn and licorneir, responds:
Come with me. Take back our world. Together, we will overthrow the strongholds of our enemies and banish hell from this realm. We will fill Licorna with the song of the licorneir once again.
A great cry goes up from the assembly, a thunderous sound that seems to shake the very foundations of Elanlein itself.
I lean forward and sing into Mahra’s ear, Are they ready? These are not warriors. Can this truly be done?
I do not know, Mahra answers. But whatever comes, we shall make such a song as will resound throughout the heavens. And the echoes of our voices will sing on into eternity.
With that she turns her head toward the Morrona. Toward Cruor. Toward Evisar. Leaping forward, she flies across the plains, leading the licorneir, carrying their song with her to the heart of this stricken world.