Page 39 of HeartTorn

“Ilsevels can only grow on holy ground,” I continue. “Once there were many such sites across Licorna. Now there is only this house left. Riders from the other surviving tribes must journey here several times a year to gather supplies, which we give generously in exchange for their fealty. Thus Elanlein, once the humblest of all the holy sites, has become a place of special prominence.”

I do not add the ongoing concern of our people that theilsevelblossoms grow less and less abundantly each year, that the supply is hardly equal to the demand. I do not mention the fear which hangs over the Hidden City that one day chieftains of other tribes may turn on us and try to claim Elanlein, hording the blossoms to protect their own licorneir. Nor do I add that if something happens to these precious blooms, our way of life may be lost forever. These are not concerns to trouble the mind of a human, a stranger.

“What do the wild unicorns eat?” Ilsevel asks, interrupting this trail of thought. “Not ilsevels, I take it.”

“No, but they have plenty of access to raw magic every time the Rift opens. Corrupt magic, which only furthers their own corruption. But enough to sustain them.”

We lapse back into silence. The night around us is not silent, however. Nightbirds call out to each other in haunting voices, and it is a relief to hear them after the days of lifeless stillness across Cruor. A chill wind wanders through the grassy peaks and stone ridges of the Rocar Mountain Range, carrying the scent of smoke and cooking meat from thedakathtents below. The Hidden City travels up and down the river according to the turn of the seasons, following game and seeking shelter from the harsh winter months, but the priests of Elanlein remain here, guarding the temple and the ilsevel garden. There are fewer priests now than there once were: only Onor Gantarith and three others, including young Onor Vamir, the youthful priest who traveled with my company on the campaign into the human world. Any moment I hope to hear one of their voices hailing us as we approach.

No greeting comes, however. We reach the arched doorway, and Elydark comes to a halt, head lowered in reverence. Still there is no sign of the priests.Where are they, Elydark?I ask silently.

They are close.His ears twitch.They are watching. And they are wondering what you have brought with you to Nornala’s house.

I harden my jaw. This was always going to be difficult. But we’ve come this far, and it’s not as though I have other options.

Dismounting, I turn and assist Ilsevel down from the saddle. She does not protest, though I feel her hands shake as they rest on my shoulders. The moment her feet are on the ground, she pushes away from me, arms wrapped tightly around her slender body, shivering in the cold. I consider the possibility of leaving her out here with Elydark while I venture inside. But even thatlittle distance between us may cause more pain and vulnerability than I’m prepared to deal with. Besides, I find I’m reluctant to let her out of my sight so near to the Hidden City. There are far too many people too close at hand who would strike her down without a second thought just because she’s human. No, she must stay with me.

“This way,” I say and step through the temple entrance into the shadows on the other side. There are no lights in this passage save for stray blossoms gleaming faintly here and there. The darkness is heavy even for my eyes. I hear Ilsevel’s footsteps stumbling behind me; her human sight is less suited to this gloom than mine.

Before I can think better of it, I reach behind me and find her hand. She tries to pull away, but I wrap my fingers tightly around hers. “Stay close,” I say, firmly ignoring the sudden warmth spreading from my palm. Around my forearm, thevelrafeels suddenly much too tight. Nornala, please grant the priests wisdom and a swift means to end this binding!

Forging on with determined strides, I lead her to the center of Elanlein. As we go, ilsevel blossoms grow thicker along the walls. Their glowing hearts pulse with light enough to dimly illuminate the space around us. The walls are set with inlaid gemstones in rich mosaic patterns, depicting licorneir and ilsevels along with celestial motifs. The floor is cool beneath our feet, carpeted in fallen petals and leaves whichshushgently as we pass. There are many twists and turns, various passages leading to secret parts of the temple, places I have never ventured. But my footsteps carry me unerringly to a place where the passage suddenly opens, and fresh night air whispers against our faces.

We step out into the Moon Chamber. The dome arches above us, smooth curves leading to a skylight circle at its peak, some twenty feet in circumference. Through this opening, the newly waxing moon shines off pale stone and fills the large spacewith a luminous glow. Directly below the skylight lies the great altar stone, where sacrifices are made in Nornala’s honor at both dawn and dusk each day. The remnants of this evening’s sacrifice still smolder in the center of the stone, and the fragrance of incense lingers in the air. The space around us is large enough to hold half the population of the Hidden City. It is cavernously empty now save for the moonlight and thousands of clustered ilsevel blossoms, growing in profusion on vines, which cling to the walls and cover the floor so densely, one cannot see the paving stones in places.

“Gantarith.” My voice echoes hollowly. “Onor Gantarith!” There is no answer. Just a waiting sense of held breath and watchfulness. I frown and step out into the moonlight, pulling Ilsevel with me.

Suddenly I become aware of song. It’s faint—just a hum on the edge of perception, and so strange. Low and haunting. I cannot tell from whence it comes. One moment I think it rains down from the sky above, a song of distant stars; the next, it seems to emanate from the ilsevel blossoms, secretive whispers of leaves and petals.

Finally I turn to Ilsevel. She stands with her hand still clasped in mine, but she looks a thousand miles away. Her eyes have a strange, glassy quality as she gazes around her at the profusion of blossoms. The song is issuing from her: a low hum, soft in her throat, but there’s more to it as well. I feel as though I’m hearing echoes of spirit, not unlike when I share song-language with Elydark. It vibrates in the deep places of my soul, awakening awareness which has hitherto slept.

I stare at her, caught in that sound. For the first time in my life, I could almost swear I hear the ilsevel blooms surrounding me singing in response. And I realize—slowly, dully, my poor earth-bound mind struggling to comprehend, even as my soulswells with the truth—the whole universe is bound together by ribbons of sound. Of song.

“What is the meaning of this?”

A startled jolt shoots through my head. The song ends, and with it, something slams shut inside me, and I am back in this chamber of stone beneath the stars, breathing heavy air. I shake my head. Sparks dance on the edges of my vision. As they clear, I find I’m looking down into Ilsevel’s face. She no longer sings. The muscles of her throat are tense, her eyes very wide, frightened as they gaze beyond me into the domed space by the altar. My mind, racing to catch up, only just realizes that the voice which interrupted her song came from behind me and spoke in my own language.

I turn on heel. “Onor Gantarith,” I say and make a reverent bow.

The priest stands just on the far side of the altar, his stern face lit by the glow of the handheld brazier he holds uplifted before him. Though his beard is still black as a rook’s wing, his face is heavily lined with age. Complex braids wrapped in knotted wires hang across his shoulders, draping all the way to the widenornilbelt wrapping his waist. He is a solemn figure, a man who has looked fully upon the cruelties the worlds have to offer and yet chose faith over cynicism. Though he has served the people of the hinterlands for seven decades, he never sought any great prominence within the holy orders, content to live out his days in remote Elanlein.

Never in his wildest dreams could he have guessed he would one day be forced by necessity to assume the role of high priest, arbiter of all the most sacred traditions of Licorna.

The weight of that duty seems to mound upon his broad shoulders even now as he stares me fiercely down across the altar slab. His black eyes move from me to Ilsevel, fixing on herwith such terrible severity, it’s all I can do to keep myself from stepping between them, making a shield of my body.

“Luinar,”he says, his voice a deep-throated rumble, “who have you brought into Nornala’s house? Who is this person who dares to sing in this sacred chamber?”

“Onor.” I take a step forward. “Allow me to present my bride. My warbride, that is.”

“What?” Gantarith’s gaze snaps from me to her. The light from his brazier seems to spark in the depths of his pupils. “Your bride? But she is human.”

I nod an acknowledgement. Then, though I doubt very much it will help, I add, “Her name is Ilsevel.”

“Ilsevel?” he echoes.

“Yes.”

I can see the thoughts careening in his head, the momentary confusion followed by hard clarity. He is thinking of the only reason a human might bear the name of our most beloved flower. And he doesn’t like it; no more than I do.

---