Page 23 of HeartTorn

“What?”

“The undead,” she persists. “How do they travel across Cruor without unicorns?”

An intelligent question, one which I have been puzzling over all this while. Without the song of the licorneir to protect them, all living things are imperiled in Cruor. What about unliving things? Surely the dead may travel at will across the land without risk from thevardimnar.But are they on foot? They rode horses in the mortal world, but horses would be at terrible risk in the wilds of this world.

“I don’t know,” I answer at last. One more mystery to add to my collection. But this one I’m not keen to discover.

It’s nearly evening by the time we come to the end of Lafarallin Forest and emerge into open country once more. Before us lies the Agandaur Fields, a stretch of farm country, once rolling and green and carefully tilled. Those days are long gone, however.

Elydark comes to a halt on the edge of the tree line, shaking his head uncomfortably. I don’t blame him. Though we have many times looked upon this sight, it is always a shock to see it again.

“What is that?” Ilsevel gasps, interrupting a silence which she has maintained for some hours now.

I stare grimly ahead. Blighted land stretches before us for mile upon mile. A haze of simmering, broken magic still hovers a few feet above the ground, the remnants of Miphates spells from when battle raged here between the united Licornyn tribes and our human invaders. It had taken many years to bring the chieftains together, to convince them of my right to rule and my worth as warlord and king. But when they at last amassed for battle, it was an awesome sight to behold. We thought that day to break through theobscurisspell, which has stood as a shield around Evisar since the time of the Rift. A valiant effort for which we gave up many lives.

The dead have all been cleared away, their remains picked over, their blood soaked into the ground. But somehow death still lingers in Agandaur. And beyond the fields, some five miles from our current position, rises theobscuris, as strong as ever it was.

It is a great wall of spellwork. To physical eyes it appears as a mist, multi-colored and churning with power. But that vision does not begin to encapsulate the horror of spirit its presence, even at five miles’ distance, inspires. It is meant to cloud, confuse, and ultimately to terrify all who draw near. Any who summoned courage enough to ride theirlicorneirinto its depths have never been heard from again.

Ilsevel stares at it now. Recoiling in horror, she forgets all resistance to my touch and presses her back against my chest. “It is Miphates work,” I say, my voice low, as though even from here we might be overheard. “Fed directly from the Rift, or so I suspect. Otherwise I don’t know how mere mortal mages could maintain such a working over so many years. It was erected soon after the firstvardimnar, to prevent repercussions from the surviving Licornyn warlords. Now the mages rarely travel beyond it, and when they do, they use that.”

I point to a series of pillars, emerging from the churning mist-spell. They are ten feet high, carved in five smooth, flat faces, tapered to a sharp point. Incongruous in this desolate place, they stand in pairs at twenty-yard intervals, extending across the field and vanishing over the horizon. At the moment, the stone is dull and cold beneath the twilight. But I have seen them glow bright as licorneir song when thevardimnarfalls.

“That is how the mage’s travel across Cruor,” I say. “They are powered by some magic which acts like a protection, not unlike the song of the licorneir. How they’ve managed it, I do not know. It’s not as effective—mages have been known to be plucked right off their paths when thevardimnarfalls. Still, neither Inor any of my people have been able to destroy those pillars. If we could break the Miphates’ access to their own world—to reinforcements and supplies from the outside—maybe we’d have a chance to drive them from Cruor once and for all. But so far, the gods have not been on our side.”

Ilsevel is very still, taking in what I say. I wonder how she receives these stories of my people’s suffering and our hatred for her kind. She’s been raised on stories of her own, after all, stories which no doubt contradict all that I now say. Does she believe me? Or does she prefer to cling to the narratives spun for her since childhood? I don’t know what I would do in her place.

Elydark moves forward at a more sedate pace. He is not eager to return to Agandaur, though he knows this is our swiftest route home. We both share far too many dreadful memories of this place. I wish I could urge him to greater speed, but there’s something watchful and careful simmering in his spirit which I cannot ignore. There may be danger close by. I trust him to alert me if necessary.

“The other night,” Ilsevel says suddenly, “when we . . . when we first met.”

Heat rushes in my pulse at the reminder of that night and all that took place between us. I suppress it and answer with grave coolness, “Yes?”

“You said your people were hunting Mage Artoris in search of a talisman. One that would open the secret paths to Evisar.”

Gods spare me, I made free with my tongue in more ways than one that night! Of course I’d thought she would be out of my life by the following morning, never to be seen or thought of again. If I’d suspected the hold thevelrawould have on us, I never would have revealed such things to her.

“Yes,” I say. What’s the point of denying it? It’s not as though she’s free to go betraying any secrets to my enemies. “Prince Ruvaen has taken captive Miphates, and he is motivated toconvince them to reveal the secret workings of the talisman. If he succeeds, we should be able to travel through theobscurisat last, or even break it entirely.”

And then, Nornala willing, we will set upon Evisar. With the combined might of the Licornyn riders and Ruvaen’s mercenaries, the assault should be devastating indeed. The Miphates may have driven us back at Agandaur, but their losses were severe, and they have not been able to rebuild their force in the three years following. Once we are through that spell, they will be vulnerable. Unless . . .

The Shadow King.

His name is like darkness itself falling across my soul. Word reached us not long ago that Larongar Cyhorn intended to ally himself with the troldefolk, arranging a marriage between the Shadow King and his own daughter. All attempts on our part to prevent this match have proven futile. If the alliance goes through, if the trolde join with the Miphates in defense of Evisar, it could go very badly for my people.

I shake my head, disgusted. How any race of Eledria, even the reclusive and enigmatic troldefolk, could ally themselves with humans is beyond my understanding. What could Larongar possibly have to entice someone as powerful as the Shadow King?

Vellar,Elydark’s voice sings sharply in my head.Vellar, I sense something.

My licorneir’s caution has shifted to distress, a painful line of song.What is it?I ask, reaching down to touch his shoulder.What is wrong?

Shanaera has been here.

A jolt of pure lightning goes through my body. Every sense in me is awake, searching, straining for some sign of Shanaera or a stray glimpse of crimson cloaks. Elydark slows.She is gone from this place now,he says, but I don’t believe him. I can’t.

Viciously I urge my licorneir into a gallop, speeding across the broken landscape of Agandaur. Some instinct drives me to a certain hillock, hardly distinguishable from the rest of the countryside around it. It was there that I held Shanaera’s body as she bled out in black rivulets. It was there that her death was seared across my conscience, my very soul, for a lifetime. I would find it even in the utter dark ofvardimnar.

But she isn’t there. The world around me is barren of life as far as the eye can see. Only there is something—something jutting from the top of that hillock, directly in that place where I’d knelt with her in my arms. Left there like a signal flag.

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