Chapter 39
TAAR
“You better not laugh when I come out,” Ilsevel calls from the other side of the curtained door. “I’m warning you.”
I chuckle softly. “It would be a brave man indeed who dared laugh at you, my zylnala.”
“I mean it! Tassa insisted this is the ceremonial garb I’m supposed to wear, but . . . but I think she might have lost her mind. If you make fun of me, I’ll make you pay for it, I swear!”
“I have no doubt you will look very beautiful,” I reply.
The only answer I receive is some low muttering about ‘land whales,’ whatever that means.
Another chuckle in my throat, I turn to look out the doorway of my dakath, taking in the sight of the Agandaur fields spread before me on this clement evening.
In the six months since the closing of the Rift, the Hidden City has relocated from the fringes of our world and moved to this strip of country outside the ruins of Evisar.
I can see the old city itself from this vantage.
It looks strangely peaceful, despite its decrepit state.
We found it to be purged of hobgoblins following the last fall of the vardimnar, but the city is still far from habitable.
I have crews working to clean it out, but I’m not certain when my people will be ready to take possession, if ever.
In the meanwhile, it is a relief to dwell among the dakaths, which are familiar to us. Though we were sad to leave Elanlein behind, despite the evil which poisoned its walls, the fields around us abound with ilsevel blossoms, stretching as far as the eye can see.
Cruor—Licorna—is beginning to heal.
Tarhyn Tribe has joined us here, swelling our ranks significantly.
Envoys have been sent to the other tribes, and though there is still resistance from some of the chieftains to accept Ilsevel as maelar, Sylcatha’s word carries weight.
There’s also the added fact of Ilsevel’s bond with Mahra.
None of the chieftains are eager to take a stand against the mother of all licorneir.
In time I believe the people of Licorna will be truly united once more.
Sylcatha and her warriors have been hard at work tearing down all the mage posts between Evisar at the Between Gate.
I myself, soon after the purging of Evisar, traveled to the Between Gate and channeled the power of kingship in my blood to block the way between this world and that of mortals.
It was a tremendous act of magic, which drastically depleted both me and Elydark.
It would have been easier to accomplish were I still bonded to Onoril.
But I am glad that Elydark remains my velarin. I could not be bonded to both simultaneously, and I could never have given up Elydark.
“Brace yourself, warlord,” Ilsevel’s voice speaks abruptly behind me. “Remember, one laugh out of you, and I’ll make you pay.”
Stifling a smile, I turn to face my wife. My heart leaps straight to my throat then plummets to my gut in a pool of molten lava.
She wears a traditional woven khiir gown, with the low V-shaped waistband and the long slitted skirt.
Silver anklets clank about her feet, and delicate cords grip her shapely legs.
A soft leokas hide wraps her breast in an intricate folded design, which leaves her shoulders and arms bare, save for silver armbands.
Her midriff is completely exposed, her large belly freely displaying the swell of life inside her.
She rests her hands on her belly, and grimaces with self-conscious embarrassment. “This is ridiculous,” she says. “Women of Gavaria don’t go around displaying themselves like this. Not in such a condition! Not when they’re all huge and—Taar! What in the worlds are you—”
Her question is cut off abruptly as my hand catches her by the back of her head, dragging her to me and crushing her mouth beneath mine.
My eager hands travel over her body, her swollen middle, her ample breasts, delighting in every swell and dip and curve and all that glorious softness.
I pull back, giving her a chance to catch her breath, and growl, “Gavarian women must be too afraid of driving their men absolutely wild.”
Ilsevel gapes at me, her swollen lips parted. “Taar . . .” She stops, shakes her head, mouth twisting in a disbelieving laugh. “Taar, you cannot possibly find this attractive!”
“Oh, can’t I?”
I catch her up in my arms, and she utters a little yelp of surprise as I carry her back to the bedroom. “Taar! Taar, we’re going to be late!”
“We cannot be late, because they cannot start without us.”
She tries one more protesting bleat, but then my hands slip beneath the leokas wrap, playing with her sensitive nipples.
Her protests turn to moans, and she falls back on the bed, succumbing to my ardor.
I tease her, toy with her, until she begs me to give her relief.
This I do with a right will, entering inside her and thrusting until she sings out a joyous song of unadulterated pleasure.
My voice joins with hers in perfect harmony, and when I collapse beside her on the pile of furs that is our bed, I think how, even without her gods-gift, her voice has not lost any of its sweetness. Not to my ear.
She rolls over, silver bangles clanking on her arms and legs, and looks up at me from under her lashes. One hand rubs the mound of her belly, and she shakes her head. “I was always told that men found pregnant women completely repulsive.”
“How could I be repulsed by the mother of my child?” I kiss her nose, kiss her cheek, kiss her chin and jaw and shoulder.
“You are so beautiful, my zylnala. I cannot imagine you more beautiful than you are right now.” I pause a moment, dropping a more lingering kiss on her breast, allowing my tongue to toy with her nipple.
I’m rewarded with a little whimper of delight.
“However,” I finish, “I look forward to you proving me wrong over the years.”
“You mean as I get older and saggy and all covered in stretch marks?”
I take hold of her chin, draw her mouth toward mine, whispering just before my lips drop to hers, “I cannot wait.”
The kiss is slow, lingering. I never want to rush kissing my bride, but intend to always make a thorough job of it. She will know she has been kissed when I am through.
Her breath is fast and hot when I pull away at last. I let my eyes wander languorously down her naked figure. “So,” I say, “do you want help getting dressed again?”
She smacks my shoulder and tosses her mussed hair. “If Tassa throws a fit before we get there, I’m placing all the blame on you, warlord!”
I grin and run a hand down the line of her hipbone and thigh. “I’ll shoulder any blame, never you fear. Especially if you’ll sing for me one more time before we go.”
“Taar, you really are impossi—”
She breaks off in a moan as I roll her onto her back and part her legs, and does not speak again until she’s singing out my name.
Despite my best efforts, we both manage to be dressed and presentable by the appointed hour.
We stand together with great dignity on the newly-established city green, surrounded by the people of both Rocaryn and Tarhyn Tribes combined.
Sylcatha takes a solemn position on Ilsevel’s right hand, clad in her Licornyn armor, her licorneir at her side.
She looks stern, but she has an ilsevel blossom tucked behind one ear—a single concession to the festivity of the occasion.
Halamar stands before me, tall and proud, though I notice that he keeps rubbing his palms together rather nervously.
“You know,” I say, inclining my head toward him, “it’s not too late to make a run for it. Miramenor is fast enough—he could get you over those hills by sunset.”
Halamar flashes me a glance. “Tassa would hunt me down and pin me to the ground with my own sword.”
He grins as he says it. It is good to see the delight back in Halamar’s eyes, the song ringing in his soul. There was a time I believed Halamar would never recover from velrhoar. So many miracles have been wrought in the last six months.
I turn to look at Ilsevel—so queenly and radiant, no one would suspect her discomfort at wearing a revealing Licornyn gown.
My eyes linger on the swell of her belly, a beautiful symbol of the repopulation of our world.
Soon Licorna will be filled with both licorneir and Licornyn again, and the air will ring with the music of unified souls.
A song begins—the licorneir, gathered among the people, throw up their heads and begin to sing, their voices ringing deep. Their riders sing with them, higher pitched, and the harmony is wonderous and otherworldly, unlike anything else in all the Eledrian realms.
As though summoned by the song, Tassa appears at the end of the green—clad in the very same Licornyn wedding gown she once loaned to Ilsevel, though it fits her tall frame rather better than it did my small bride.
She carries a cluster of ilsevel blossoms in her hands, and her velarin licorneir paces solemnly behind her as she progresses, barefoot, through the grass.
I feel the song shared between them, not unlike the song she shares with Halamar.
A song of second-chances. A song of renewal.
Halamar extends his hand to my sister. Her fingers slip into his, and they smile into each other’s eyes. Though I approach them with a golden cord in hand, they do not look at me, but face only each other.
I lift up my hand, let my voice carry across the assembly: “The night of silence has ended,” I sing, the old Licornyn words falling so naturally from my lips. “Now is the morning of song.”
I take their joined hands and begin to wrap the velra cord around them, winding it down their forearms. As I do so, I continue to sing .
. . only now, Ilsevel’s voice joins with mine in delicate harmony: “Now is the time of shelter,” we sing together.
“Cold shall not enter your bones, for, to each other, you shall be warmth.”
Though our marriage ceremony is not traditionally performed this way, others, hearing their maelar’s voice, are emboldened to lift up their voices as well. They know the ancient words, after all, which are made new in the light of our liberated world:
“Let the fires join and be one flame,” they sing, a great chorus, mingling with the voices of the licorneir. “Let the bodies join and be one flesh.”
Sylcatha steps forward, offering a bowl of ruehnar ink.
I dip my fingers and proceed to inscribe the sacred runes, first on Halamar’s breast, then on my sister’s.
“Now,” I say, “Halamarkareth Akkarhalathane, it is time. You must speak your troth to your bride. If your vows prove true, come silmael, she will speak them back to you. Thus is the will of the Goddess.”
“The will of the Goddess,” the watching crowd intones in response.
So Halamar looks into Tassa’s eyes and speaks the ancient vow:
“With my faith will I honor you.
With my body will I protect you.
With my arms will I shelter you.
With my heart will I warm you.”
As the words fall from his tongue, I find my gaze seeking out Ilsevel’s. Halamar’s voice rings out clearly for all listeners, but I whisper the words for her alone, and watch her read them on my lips:
“From this day forth, my mouth, my lips, my tongue,
My every waking breath,
Are dedicated to your pleasure and delight.”
Tears glint in her dark eyes. But she lifts her chin proudly, even as her own lips silently form the final phrases in tandem with me: “Vel-sa almar. E luralma idor-hath.”
The truth is there between us. Whatever comes—life or death, beginnings and endings—this song of ours, mine and Ilsevel’s, will echo through eternity.
One life. One song. One vow. Forever and always.
So let it be.
THE END