Page 27 of HeartTorn

The final words of the death song fall from my lips. My part of the melody trails away softly, while Elydark and the other voice continue to hold their two-part harmony a little longer. For a few stolen moments I allow my soul to rest suspended in their song, carried above mourning into the vast reaches beyond hurt, beyond time, beyond decay and loss and heartbreak.

Slowly I open my eyes. Ashika’s face fills my vision. For a moment I see it as it once was—alive and full of life, courage,good humor, and eagerness for adventure. I half-expect her to look up at me and smile as she once did, to wink and tell me not to be so long-faced, for all will turn out right in the end.

I blink. The image fades. I see only the gray cheeks and two stones covering those sunken eyes. She is gone. But perhaps, by the grace of that song, her soul has found the path which will lead her home.

Someone kneels beside me. A quick glance sideways, and I almost choke on an inhaled breath. Ilsevel. She has folded her hands like mine and bent her head, looking for all the world like a solemn Licornyn mourner in her borrowed gown and her free-flowing hair. Was that her voice—that miraculous, gods-gifted voice—which joined with mine and Elydark’s? Her lips are still now, her eyes closed. But I can feel the vibration of song in her soul, not unlike a licorneir’s. So strange. And so very beautiful.

She opens her eyes at last, her dark lashes lifting as her gaze slips sideways to catch mine. She looks frightened, as though she expects me to reprimand her. When I say nothing, however, she looks down at Ashika’s still face once more. The muscles in her throat tense as she swallows. Then: “Was she a friend of yours?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Was it . . . Shanaera? Who did this?”

“I believe so.”

“And the rest of your people?”

“I don’t know.”

She nods. Her folded hands drop into her lap. We remain like so for a time, neither moving. Finally she draws a long breath and lets it out in a gusting sigh. As though giving into an impulse, she reaches out and takes hold of my hand. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet the moment her fingers wrap around mine, fire roars across my skin and bursts in my head like a storm. I’m so stunned, I can do nothing but stare at those small, white fingers, so delicate, so unscarred. The hand of a lady whohas known nothing but soft living and indulgence. But there is strength in that grip of hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I meet her eye again. “What for?”

“For your loss.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Even as I say the words, I regret them. If it weren’t for Ilsevel, I would have been with my people when they were attacked. I would have fought with them, protected them. Ashika might still be alive had I not allowed myself to become distracted by this warbride of mine.

She seems to read my thoughts. Her brow puckers, and she sucks in both lips, biting down hard. Then she nods, releases my hand, and looks down at Ashika’s face once more. “I’m still sorry.”

But her sorrow cannot undo what has been done. Neither can my guilt.

Aware of that cold place on my hand where her fingers had gripped, I force myself to my feet. “Come,” I say. “The sun will set soon. We must be away from this evil place before we stop for another night.”

13

ILSEVEL

Days pass. One after another. Each chased by a long, dark, exhaustion-filled night.

I begin to forget what life was like before Cruor—before these endless hours of galloping, before these new horizons sought, found, and left behind in dust. Even the occasional spread of black lightning across the sky ceases to surprise me, though it remains as great a horror as ever. It is simply part of this new existence in which I have found myself, along with Elydark’s song and Taar’s broad presence at my back.

I lose all track of how long this journey has lasted. Each day is so much like the last, time measured in hoofbeats rather than seconds. Taar makes a point to stop by some water source at midday each day, purifies the water, and sees that I refresh myself. Sometimes he hunts, but never with any luck. While he claims it is not impossible to find prey out here in the wild country, farther from Evisar and the epicenter of the Rift, I’ve yet to see any evidence of life. What could possibly bear to live out here, among these ghostly ruins and this hell-plagued atmosphere?

So we subsist on a diet ofumecakes, which do not grow more toothsome with familiarity. I’d almost prefer to starve than gnaw my way through one more of those damnable rocks! But every night, Taar urges me to eat, his tone carefully balanced between concern and command so that I do not quite dare rebel.

And every night, I lie down on my side of our camp, aching in every bone, feeling the wind trying to make its way throughthe folds of my cloak . . . and wonder what would happen if I dared creep to the other side of the fire. If I dared curl up against that forbidding wall of Taar’s back, drawing warmth from his presence. Would he react? Would he bark sharply at me to get away? Would he remind me all over again how important it is that we do nothing to strengthen thevelrabond, which already puts him at such risk?

Or would he roll over in the dark, covering me with his cloak and his body. Let the scent of his musk fill my nostrils even as the warmth of his hands molded my flesh, pressing me against him. Would we rediscover those glories we knew so briefly . . . how many nights ago? I’ve long since lost count. But I’ve certainly not forgotten the experience. My body burns to relive it, to know what new wonders may yet be discovered between us.

Each night, I bite down hard on my lower lip, squeeze my eyes tight—and suddenly memory of a pyre fills my head. Aurae’s pyre, along with the corpses of those she had slain. My darling sister, so sweet, so innocent . . .

Then I roll over in the darkness, curl into a tight ball, and silently cry myself to sleep.

At dawn we rise to do it all again. Taar stokes up the fire, brews his tea, which he shares with me, then packs the saddlebags with swift efficiency. We mount; we ride. We cover as much territory as possible. Not once do we see any sign of his people, not since the corpse on the battlefield. Nor do we glimpse the hearttorn unicorn, though I find myself watching for her and for Mahra and the wild herd, my gods-gift straining for the faintest echo of that broken chorus. All is silent in Cruor, however. All songs have been swallowed up in the un-song of thevardimnar.

One day, late in the afternoon, Elydark crests a rise above a valley which once belonged to a prosperous lord of Licorna. I can still see evidence of fields so laboriously carved out of the wildland, the stone walls, the storage buildings, half-fallen under the weight of overgrowth, eaten away by decay. The house itself is stone: a fine, golden-faced building, with empty windows that gives off the feeling of a soul long-since fled.

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