Page 38 of HeartTorn

To my relief, Taar doesn’t try to sit with me or make conversation. As soon as he’s fed and watered me like the inconvenient pet I am, he steps away, his back to both me and the river, and stands beside Elydark. The two of them put their heads together, sharing words in their silent language nodoubt. I firmly tamp down any effort on my gods-gift’s part to eavesdrop. Instead, careful not let my gaze travel back to the river and that hideous darkness engulfing the far side, I take note of the landscape into which we’ve entered. It’s not unlike the rugged country we’ve traveled through all day—hilly, not quite mountainous, but with rocky ridges and sudden valleys, covered in yellow-green grass as far as the eye can see. But there’s something about this wilderness that feels different. There’s a freshness in the air, a certain snap and spice I can’t quite define. Is it because thevardimnarhas never touched this land? Perhaps this is what all Licorna once felt like, before the Rift.

“There.”

Taar’s voice breaks through my thoughts, drawing my attention unwillingly to him. He doesn’t look my way, but raises one arm, pointing west, into the setting sun. I shade my eyes, curious despite myself, and spy a stone building set on an outcrop some miles from our current position—I can’t judge how far in this light. Nor can I tell if it is a large structure or merely positioned in such a way as to dominate the visual landscape. It strikes me as incongruous, a manmade dwelling out here in this wild land.

“That is Elanlein,” Taar says, still without turning to me. “The Last Holy House, wherein Nornala’s divine presence yet dwells in this world.”

A cold weight settles in my gut. I look at that far house again. Our destination, the goal for which we have been striving since passing through the gate into this world. Will we find there the help Taar seeks? Is our inevitable separation truly so close at hand? Good, if so. Perhaps last night I was foolish enough to think I wished otherwise, but now? I’m ready to get this over with. To break this damnable bond, to leave behind thisdamnable world. To never look this damnable husband of mine in the eye again.

I choke down a final bite ofumecake. Though the last thing I want is to return to the saddle, I rise and brush crumbs from my skirt. “Well, warlord?” I say coldly. “Shall we continue . . .”

My words trail away to nothing. For suddenly, across the river, singing out from the darkness, a voice catches my ear, my heart, drags my gaze sharply around. Though some small, self-preserving part of me knows I shouldn’t, I stare into the churning black of thevardimnar,as though my eyes can pierce that membrane and see what lies on the other side. See the unicorn—Nyathri—who stands there, beyond the flowing river, singing that hearttorn song.

“Ilsevel?” Taar speaks sharply, but I cannot heed him. Everything in me strains after that song, so warped and twisted and yet . . . and yet . . . once more I find myself listening for the harmony that could fix it. I can almost hear it. It’s right there, on the edge of my gods-gifted awareness. I can’t help thinking that, should I hear it, should I sing it, the song would be beautiful indeed. Almost worth the pain it took to create it.

“Ilsevel!”

A grip on my arm. A yank, a turn. I come to myself abruptly only to find I have wandered down almost to the edge of the river. Taar’s fingers wrap around my upper arm in a painful grasp, and his eyes stare down into mine, searching my face. “Ilsevel, can you hear me?”

I blink up at him, addled, uncertain. The hearttorn song still echoes in my ears, but when I twist in Taar’s grasp to look out across the river again, I find the darkness has vanished. Nothing but lonely landscape stretches before my vision. There’s no sign of Nyathri anywhere to be seen. Her song fades as well, slowly at first, then swiftly, like crumbling ash. I begin to wonder if I imagined it.

“Ilsevel?” Taar says again, his voice low and urgent. “Ilsevel, can you hear me?”

I whip my head about, scowling up at him. When I shrug and push, he lets me go. I stagger back three steps, nearly falling in a heap. With an effort I pull myself upright, dragging a long inhale through my nose. “I’m fine, warlord.” My hands slowly clench into fists. “I’m ready to ride if you are.”

His eyes narrow as he studies me closely. I meet his gaze hard, refusing to offer either explanations or excuses, daring him to question me further. At last he nods shortly, turns from me, and calls to Elydark.

We mount without a word and ride on, leaving the river and any remnants of broken song far behind.

20

TAAR

Once there were many Holy Houses standing on high promontories across Licorna—pale stone structures, domed and graceful, from which the spirit of Nornala poured forth into our world. There my people gathered for worship on hallowed nights, beneath the light of the moon, and the songs of the licorneir could be heard rising to sing in harmony with the stars above.

Elanlein is all that remains of our sacred places now. The others have long since been lost to the swallowing darkness of the Rift.

Despite the deepening gloom of night, Elydark finds the path to the temple, sure-footed even on the rough and winding way. I feel the excitement in his soul as we draw nearer, the uplifted energy at the prospect of once more entering into that sanctuary and replenishing his essence. By contrast, Ilsevel is almost limp in my arms. As daylight fades, so too does her stubborn strength. Her spine, which has remained lance-straight throughout the long hours of our ride, bends at last, and her body sags against mine, head lolling on my shoulder.

I grit my teeth. It’s cruel to keep pressing on like this, with her exhausted as she is. But Elanlein is so near, I cannot bear to stop again. Let us get this bond severed as soon as possible. Then I can permit her to rest a day, perhaps two, before we begin the journey back to her own world. In the meanwhile I shall have to keep her hidden at the Holy House. The last thing I need is for the city folk to discover a human in their midst.

The clouds break overhead, allowing a gleam of moonlight to shine through. I turn my head, gazing out from the high path we climb to the valley revealed below. My heart seems to turn over in my breast. A sea of large, multi-chambereddakathtents spreads before my vision—a thousand strong, arranged in concentric patterns around the great Meeting House at the very center. Campfires burn like fallen stars in the darkness, and I can imagine even from this distance that I see the shadowy silhouettes of men, women, and children going about their lives, unaware of my distant scrutiny. All is peaceful, as though time itself stopped during my too-long absence and is only just now beginning to flow once more.

So Shanaera hasn’t made it this far. Not yet anyway. And what of my riders, Kildorath and the others? Did any of them survive the altercation at Agandaur? Are they even now waiting for me below? I long to turn Elydark’s head that way, to race him through the night-stretched shadows into those waitingdakaths. I want to find my sister, to know that she lives.

Instead I face forward once more, fixing my gaze on the temple above. We are only half a mile away now. On either side of the path, flowers gleam in the darkness, dark petals furled back from glowing golden centers. Elydark sings softly at the sight of them, unable to contain his pleasure.

“What are those?”

I startle, surprised by the sound of Ilsevel’s voice after so many hours of silence. She lifts her head from my shoulder, turning to look at a cluster of flowers as we pass by.

I hesitate, suddenly uncertain. But then, what harm can there be in telling her the truth? “Those areilsevelblossoms,” I say quietly.

She sucks in a little breath. After a few moments she nods shortly. “They . . . have a strange song,” she says, almost as though to herself rather than to me.

I frown slightly. I’ve never heard any song fromilsevelblossoms. But her gods-gift may make her sensitive to things my own senses cannot perceive. “They are a gift from Nornala,” I say, “sent from her heavenly garden as sustenance for the licorneir. Licorneir, you understand, are beings of pure magic and, therefore, can eat only pure magic as well. The hearts ofilsevelblossoms contain raw magic in its purest form. One blossom may satisfy a licorneir for months on end. And the petals, as you know, can be used to purify corrupt magic.”

The higher we climb, the more densely the blossoms grow, mounding on either side of the path, their fiery hearts illuminating the night. Up ahead I spy the doorway of the Holy House, where more ilsevelsgrow up the doorposts and hang in dense clusters from the lintel. The air is thick with their perfume.

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