Chapter 37 #2
I know what I must do. I am luinar of Licorna, of Cruor, of whatever it has become. It is in my power to open and close the gates to other worlds. But . . . not on my own.
Reluctantly, I lay Ilsevel down at Mahra’s feet, trusting the great licorneir to watch over her.
Then, turning, I kneel beside Onoril once more, place my hands on his suffering body.
Bowing low, I press my forehead to his, my browbone resting just below his horn.
Onoril, I sing in my soul, and feel the brightness of Ilsevel’s gods-gift still lingering in my veins. Onoril, remember.
An image appears in my mind—the three of us: me, my father, his licorneir. We ride across the open country beyond Evisar City, the wind in our hair, the sun on our heads, the whole wide world our home.
“One day,” my father spoke close to my ear, “you and Onoril will bond. It is your destiny, as it was mine before you.”
Do you remember, Onoril? I sing. Do you remember that promise?
It seems to me that, even in the depths of velrhoar, the great licorneir hears me, that his soul turns toward mine.
I am not the man my father was, I sing on, the truth weighty in my heart. But I promise, for however long our bond may last, I will be a true Vellar to you.
With an effort, Onoril raises up his head. His eyes, both ancient and ageless, turn to me. I feel the depths of the starry heavens in that gaze.
His voice appears in my head for the first time. Son of my Vellar, he sings in tones so deep, they seem to plunge through eternity itself. My song is not what it was. The darkness has eaten it away. But whatever remains, I give to you.
I feel it—the opening of both my spirit and his, the fire of his soul extending toward me, dangerous and consuming.
I face it without fear. My own soul reaches back, our different fires joining together in a complex harmony of being.
I feel his brokenness, but I feel his strength as well, and it is far greater, far wilder, far more dangerous than anything I ever knew from Elydark.
This is a being of pure fire, only just contained within physical form, and none but the luinar himself could dare bond with him.
But I am luinar—in truth now, not name alone. I stand in the footsteps of my father and his father and his father before him, in a line unbroken back to the beginning of our world. I receive the fire of Onoril, offering mine in return. Thus the bond is formed.
Onoril rises to his feet, a massive being, his head towering far above mine.
It does not seem possible that he could fit within this stone chamber, and my mind tries to tell me that the physical dimensions of the room warp simply to contain him.
He turns his great horned head to the pit, gazes into the darkness spewing forth.
His eyes seem to plunge far deeper than mine, all the way down to Ashtarath, who climbs higher and higher, spewing virulium before her.
Sing with me now, Vellar, Onoril commands.
I place my hand on his shoulder. Then, closing my eyes, I begin to sing. All the burning power of Ilsevel’s gods-gift that still moves inside me pours into that song. I feel it flooding my veins, creating a melodic anchor, which grounds Onoril in place even as his own song ignites.
A blast of primal energy bursts from his horn, strikes the darkness of the pit, and churns it into a furious storm.
This is the song of the Father of all licorneir—the song of ages, written by Nornala, when first She shaped this world.
It burns through virulium, through un-song, down to where the demon of the seventh hell seeks to rise.
I hear her voice, screaming even now in desperate hunger: “Give me to drink! Pour out blood!”
I turn my face away from the pit, turn toward Onoril, and send my songs like a prayer into him.
Onoril gathers more and more power, strengthened by our connection.
The stones around the edge of the pit glow red-hot.
Slowly they begin to warm and swarm together, narrowing the gap, closing the Rift between worlds.
Onoril takes a step forward, his light clashing with the darkness in a loud cataclysm that almost drowns out the beauty of his song.
Ashtarath fights back, unwilling to relinquish her hold.
Mahra takes a step, comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her mate.
She adds her voice to his, adds her soulfire—and not hers alone.
I feel all the voices of the licorneir children joined together in her voice.
Everything which she and Onoril have created together in this world they love.
And it is simultaneously fragile and tremendously strong.
Onoril accepts what she offers. The blast of raw energy pouring into the pit intensifies, until I fear my own flesh will melt away under that heat. Ashtarath shrieks and lashes, but sinks down deeper, deeper, even as her cries fade: “Give me to drink . . . to drink . . . to drink . . .”
The portal shrinks, the gap closing smaller and smaller. And yet, somehow, it will not close. Un-song belches through in spurts of darkness.
It’s not enough! I cry out desperately. It must be closed completely, or it will all break through again!
Onoril turns his head, looks into my eye with that endless gaze of his. It must be sealed from the inside.
My soul knots with dread. I should have known. I should have guessed it would come to this. After all I was dead—and I was in hell. It is only natural that I must return there in the end. The last great sacrifice for the sake of my world.
I will do it, I sing, though my voice trembles even in spirit. I will seal the gate.
But Onoril shakes his head. Something burns bright in his eyes, in the depths of his soul. Something like regret . . . and resolution.
It was love for my Vellar that led me to open the Rift in the first place, he sings. And it is love for my Vellar that will give me the strength to close it now.
Before I have time to think, he turns and, with a surge of powerful muscle, plunges forward, vanishing through the crack in the worlds. He carries his song with him. For a moment soulfire, not virulium, fountains out from the depths. A great tongue of pure, multi-colored flame.
“No!” I shout, and start to lunge for the edge. But Mahra steps in my way, stretching out her neck so that my chest strikes against the long coil of her horn, effectively blocked.
A loud burst of light and sound.
A great boom of black, writhing magic and a sudden searing through the air.
I am knocked off my feet, thrown back against the wall. My head hits stone, my senses addled. For some time—maybe hours, maybe years—I can do nothing but sit there, waiting for the swirling constellations to settle down once more.
Finally I open my eyes. Gaze upon the melted floor.
The writhing stones twisted back into shape, still hot. But shut fast. Sealed.
Tiny threads of virulium essence eek out between the cracks. But these turn to vapors and vanish without a trace.
The Rift is closed. Once and for all.
With a gasp of air, I look about the room. There lies the body of my father, broken and still. A sob lurches to my throat, but for the moment I cannot weep for him. No, though the sorrow in my heart will follow me to the end of my days, just now, a more pressing concern drives me.
I turn, searching for my wife. But she does not lie where I left her.
“Ilsevel?” I choke on her name, then try again. “Ilsevel!”
A hand falls on my shoulder.
I turn, look up, into eyes of warm brown, shining still with the echoing songs of a thousand stars.
“Ilsevel!” I cry.
In that moment, my voice transforms into a symphony of joy, grief, wonder, and—more than anything—love. I pull her into my arms and press her to my heart. A heart which beats with life and pure, pulsing song.