Page 5 of HeartTorn

She shrugs. “Gods-gifts aren’t like ordinary magic. I don’t have todrawit orsummonit. It is simply in me.”

I nod slowly. “In this regard you are more like the fae. They are born with magic in their blood, so it is always at their fingertips.”

“And do you have such magic in your blood?”

“Some. But I amibrildian, not fae.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

I chuckle softly, a huff of air through my lips. “Long ago,” I say, falling into a rhythm of recitation learned in a sunlit classroom, back when Master Mitalar, my old tutor, was still determined to make a scholar out of me. “Long ago there was a race of fae who sought refuge from their oppressors in mortal lands. They were not a great or powerful people, but to human eyes they appeared godlike in their glory. As a result humans were pleased to marry their sons and daughters off to the beautiful beings who walked among them, and a new race was born—theibrildians.Neither human nor fae, but something new. Nornala, Goddess of Unity, was so pleased by this joining of the two races, that she went so far as to create a realm just for them, somewhere between Eledria and the mortal world. SoLicorna came into being, and the goddess bade theibrildianfolk spread across it and claim it as theirs.”

Ilsevel mulls over this information. “And the . . . yourlicorneir?”she asks, stumbling a little over the word. “Do they originate from the same realm?”

I draw in a long breath. The question is simple enough, but not the answer. The great mystery and miracle of the licorneir is hard to encapsulate in mere words, particularly not in this language, which does not boast the depth of meaning found in my native tongue.

“At the dawn of the new world,” I say at last, falling again into that same, rhythmic tone, “Nornala looked upon the land she had made and saw that it was good for her Star Children to inhabit. Not so close to thequinsatrathat they might grow swollen with power, but not so far from it that they might become starved and vicious.

“So the goddess sent Onoril and Mahra, Father and Mother of all licorneir. They are, like the wild unicorns of Wanfriel, fiery creatures by nature. It is said that Onoril and Mahra carry the souls of stars in their hearts. But unlike unicorns, the licorneir were blessed by Nornala with thevelragift—the ability to bond. Those of my people who prove worthy present themselves when they come of age as candidates for thevelarin. Not all are chosen,” I add, reaching around Ilsevel to stroke Elydark’s shoulder. “The licorneir can be selective.”

Elydark tosses his head and utters songful laughter. He remembers as well as I the moment of my presentation. The gawky, frightened, but determined man-to-be that I was, desperate to prove myself worthy to this ancient being of light and song and power. An impossible task . . . and yet he must have seen something of promise in me.

“When a rider’s soul is ready to bond,” I continue, “the licorneir will share its name. I first heard Elydark’s namesung in my head on the shores of the Morrona River when I was but sixteen years of age. It is, of course, a challenge to translate into sounds made with the tongue—Elydarkis merely an approximation of the true name, which only I possess.”

She nods slowly, taking in all that I have shared. “When I first saw the licorneir,” she says after a time, “that night during the battle, they were ablaze.”

“Yes. The starfire inherited from Onoril and Mahra burns in the soul of each beast. When they go into battle, that fire erupts and reveals the true nature of what to us appears as mere flesh and bone. Only a rider soul-bonded to his mount can survive that fire and become one with it.”

Even as I speak these last words, the trees around us suddenly give way to open country stretching endlessly to either side. Before us lies a great wall of mist, with only a cliff’s edge of stone lying between us and it. Below is a vertiginous drop into nothing.

“Ah!” I say, as Elydark comes to a halt. “We are near the Cruor gate now.”

“Gate?” Ilsevel grips a handful of Elydark’s mane as she looks this way and that. “Where?” I point to our right. She turns, and I hear an inhale of horror as she spies, not more than a few yards away, a painfully narrow bridge extending out over that emptiness before vanishing into the mist. “That doesn’t look like a gate to me,” she protests weakly.

“Of course not.” I turn Elydark’s head and urge him along the cliff’s edge toward that swaying bit of rope and wood planking. “We can’t have just anyone wandering out of Wanfriel into Cruor. Most gates in the Wood are disguised to look like anything other than what they are. One must either be in on the secret or have an expert nose for sniffing out such magic.”

She makes a few little gulping sounds of protest but ultimately stifles them behind her hand. It’s just as well. Like it or not, this is our only way through to that world, and while Iam loath to see Cruor again, I have been too long away from the Hidden City. It is time to return home.

Elydark stops suddenly, ears pinned back. He bows his head, lowering his horn into a defensive position.What is it?I demand.

I sense something,he sings back to me, his voice troubled.I sense . . . someone . . .

Who?I look over his bowed head. Could it be that Kildorath, Ashika, and the others failed to honor my command and wait for me at the Luin Stone? Have they gathered by the gate instead, determined not to cross over without theirluinar?

But Elydark shakes his head roughly, and a ripple of fear flows from his soul to mine. Then he speaks the last name I either want or expect to hear:

Shanaera.

3

ILSEVEL

A swift exchange of song passes between Taar and his unicorn. I cannot understand it, but I feel the sudden shift in tension ringing in the subtle harmony they share. In Elydark it sounds like dread, a terrible emotion to emanate from such a being.

But from Taar that dread is mingled with something else. Something which at first sounds like terror, but also—and perhaps I’m mistaken about this, for it doesn’t make sense—hope.

Curse this ridiculous gift of mine. I liked it better when it was simply a knack for picking up musical instruments and singing complex arias with ease. This new awareness is far more than I bargained for and still not particularly useful. I’m just as helpless as ever in this strange world in which I find myself. I should have had the War Gift. The gods made a mistake when they gave it to Aurae instead. I would have known what to do with such a gift. Then I wouldn’t have failed my sister.

Gritting my teeth against the rising flood of guilt, I shake my head, desperate to clear out what I can of that song. “What is it?” I demand. “What’s wrong?”

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