Chapter 36
ILSEVEL
Tassa writhes and twists on the ground while her soul hovers in the ether above her, half-connected to her body, half-torn free by the necroliphon spell. Her screams rip the darkness of the vardimnar, which triumphs in her torment.
“Stop it!” I turn to Morthiel again, struggling against the wall of un-song, which keeps me at bay.
It shudders in reaction to the soulfire in my heart, but for the moment, without Mahra beside me, I am not as strong as I was.
“Please, don’t hurt her!” My eyes seek the mage’s face through the whorl of dark power surrounding him.
“I’ll do anything, whatever you want from me. Just spare her life.”
Morthiel smiles. The tattoo marks, the spellcraft written into his skin, dance with brilliant red light.
For the moment, that is the only light I can see in this dark place.
I cannot hear Mahra or the voices of the other licorneir—they are all too far from me.
I am alone in this hell with this madman, surrounded by un-song far deeper than the darkness of night.
“We have a deal, Princess,” he says, and closes his hand.
The death spell cuts off abruptly. I turn just in time to see Tassa’s soul snap back into her body.
Tassa drags in a great gasp of air, alive, but unable to move.
She lies where she fell, quivering, vulnerable to the vardimnar.
But her licorneir, no longer driven back by the death-magic, appears through the darkness and stands over her, soulfire shining fiercely in a sphere of protection.
Morthiel drops the barrier of un-song he’d raised against me.
I turn to look at him, and see the red light twisting in the gaping space in his torso where my blade pierced him.
I’ve seen this before, seen the dead corpses repair themselves from wounds that should have felled them.
He reaches out, grabs the front of my gown, drags me toward him.
“I need you to sing, Ilsevel,” he snarls, his unnaturally young face warped with too much magic.
“I need you to sing the balance to this power I wield. Make whole what I have wrought in part. I have pushed back the hand of death, restoring my flesh to youth. Now you must make it real, make it last. Fill me with the song of creation.”
I shake my head, cringing away from the glare of necroliphon magic and the pounding throb of un-song, which threatens to overwhelm my senses. “I don’t know how to do what you ask.”
His lips wrinkle back in a smile. “You’d best start figuring it out.” Still gripping me by my bodice, he holds up his other hand and reveals the churning enchantment still held there, the connection to Tassa’s soul. “Her life is at my fingertips. Sing now, or she dies.”
In that moment, I find myself standing in a space of memory—in the center of my father’s receiving hall, before him and his guests.
“Sing,” he commanded with a wave of his hand. “Show my friends what the gods saw fit to gift you.” Then he would turn to them and loudly declare, “She’s useless enough, but her voice is fine, you will see. Go on, Ilsevel. Sing for your father.”
From there I see myself kneeling at his feet once again, when he told me I should marry the Shadow King. “Your wishes are of no concern to me, daughter,” he’d declared when I protested. “You will do as I say, and we will speak no more of it.”
I stare into Morthiel’s eyes, seeing my father’s face overlayed above his enchanted features.
Yet another man who wishes only to use me, to control me.
Who perceives me as nothing more than an instrument for his own purpose.
Everything I have fought against, everything I have resisted, even to the point of my own destruction.
I feel the force of his control over me, the power he wields. And yet . . .
And yet, he is not the only one empowered here.
I open my mouth and let song pour forth.
At first it is a weak, thin sound, quite unlike my gods-gifted song. The un-song is so dense in the atmosphere, so thick and cloying, it seems to coat my tongue, trickle down my throat, eager to swallow my voice and prevent me from singing as I should.
I push back against it, find my note—low and wordless, supported deep in my gut. It feels so insubstantial compared to the enormity of the vardimnar, the destructive force even now pounding against my senses.
But I’ve learned much in these last few weeks. I’ve learned that my gods-gift was never meant to be used alone.
What was it Morthiel had called it? The power of creative force . . . but creative force is a work of unity, of collaboration. The giving of one to another to generate a greater whole. Like the miracle of birth itself.
More than anything in life, I have longed to be free, to be autonomous, to sing my own song beyond the grasping control of another being. But my song did not become true until it joined with a great chorus. Until it found the place where it belonged in the symphony of existence.
So I sing. And as I sing, I reach out to the next nearest song, reverberating with soulfire power in the darkness behind me.
Tassa’s licorneir, standing guard over her fallen rider, responds to my touch, lends her voice to mine.
The light around her intensifies, and my voice strengthens, deepens, broadens.
I hear another voice—Elydark, drawing near, out of the darkness. Big, red, powerful, and hearttorn, he lends me his song, full of broken beauty and pain. I take his voice as well, weave it in with mine and the other licorneir’s. The harmonies are complicated and strange, but beautiful.
The un-song surrounding and sustaining Morthiel reacts like a threatened snake. It seems to draw back its head, but I feel how readily it will lash out with fangs and poison if it sees a chance.
“Yes,” Morthiel moans, a hideously earthy sound. His hand, still gripping the front of my bodice, begins to shake with eagerness. “Yes, this is what I need. The balance!”
I continue singing. Now Miramenor’s voice draws near, a complicated resonance of pain, guilt, and joyful restoration. I draw it in with the others.
One by one, I feel them all—all the licorneir, bonded and wild, appearing like stars in the darkness, offering me their unique soulfire songs.
I weave them together, a pattern of melody more complicated than anything I could have imagined back in the days when my gods-gift was subdued.
Light builds up inside me, multi-hued and brilliant, pouring from my tongue in a river of variegated hues.
Morthiel’s eyes widen. The spellwork written across his body glows brighter, fiercer, reacting to this influx of new power. But the un-song reacts as well, swelling in protest, fighting to maintain its hold.
“That’s enough now,” Morthiel says.
But I do not stop. I’m not sure I could, even if I wished to. The song keeps growing, pouring out from me, brighter and hotter, until I believe my tongue is made of pure flame.
Morthiel pushes me away violently, but though I stagger, my song does not falter. “Stop!” he cries, his eyes too bright with songlight, the spells on his skin burning. “Stop, or I will kill the rider!” He holds up his hand, red light flickering at his fingertips.
I send out a burst of twining song, rip that spell from his grasp and shred it to pieces. Then I take a step forward, still singing, closing the distance between us.
Morthiel backs away. Songlight builds up inside him, pushing out the un-song. It makes his skin bubble and swell, his face warp in strange contortions. “It’s too much!” he shrieks. “It’s too much! Stop! Stop now!”
He backs away to the very edge of the light-barrier, to the place where the vardimnar waits.
Mahra appears. She seems to manifest out of nothing, massive and magnificent at my side. I realize suddenly that she has been with me all this while, only I was too frightened to realize it. But her song is the foundation stone upon which all my harmonies are built.
Drawing strength from that knowledge, I throw back my head and let a greater burst of song flow forth.
It strikes Morthiel in the chest, driving him back toward the darkness.
I see him hit, and the membrane seems to ripple at his back.
Strange things move just on the other side, eager, hungry things.
So many hands, pressing, pushing, desirous to reach through from the other side.
“Give me to drink!” a voice roars from a great distance away, the dark counter to my song. “Pour out blood unto me!”
Suddenly the membrane rips. Threads of reality shred, and a huge hand stretches forth.
Or rather, something like a hand, something for which I have no other name—long finger-like protrusions, joints, and claws—alien and other and hideous.
It tears through the membrane, emitting a blast of un-song that knocks me off my feet.
I skid backwards through the dirt, my voice shocked into silence.
But Mahra stands firm. Lowering her head, she takes the bulk of the blast into her own soulfire, rendering it null.
Morthiel shrieks in abject terror. The hand, repulsed by Mahra’s song, instead closes down on him.
Bursts of necroliphon magic erupt in the air around him, as though he’s trying to gather some spell of protection.
But his magic, even powered as it is by Asthari energy, is no match for Astharath herself.
Those hideous fingers close tight—snuff his life from existence.
The hand retreats back into the membrane, into the realm of its origin.
A wild, howling horror fills the atmosphere with terrible dissonance.
The song of the licorneir rallies against it, soulfire blazing against the onslaught of darkness.
But something has happened, something dreadful.
The Rift . . . it isn’t closing. This vardimnar has lasted far longer than it should, and now things are breaking through from the other side.
Soon there will be more rips in that membrane, soon the threads of reality will fray and fall away.
Mahra! I cry out, even as I force myself back up to my feet. Mahra, we’ve got to close the Rift!
She turns, her song still glowing bright, and looks at me. Then she lifts her head, eyes fixed on the citadel. The source is up there, she says, her voice clear in my mind, despite the un-song clamor.
When she kneels, I scramble onto her back.
I cast a last look around at the licorneir and their riders, singing bravely.
They gather close together, but the darkness is growing denser by the moment, seeking to cut them off from one another, to weaken their song.
I send a burst of my own song out to them, an encouragement, a fortification.
Then, with a toss of her flaming head and a roar that sends un-song tatters fleeing before her, Mahra races for the citadel tower.