Page 49 of HeartTorn

I don’t believe him. How can I? Yes, he entered that death-pit and faced off against Lurodos for my sake. But it’s one thing to fight a monster and personal nemesis; quite another to take a stand against his own people. I bite my lip, doubt gnawing my gut, but force myself to nod.

Taar looks over my head to where Tassa and Halamar stand behind me, the people of the Hidden City behind them. He raises one hand and speaks something in his own language. The Licornyn folk exchange glances. Somebody cries out sharply, and others seem to murmur in angry agreement. Shaking his head, Taar turns to his sister. “Pray to Nornala for us,” he says.

Her lip curls. “I’ll petition all the gods, brother. One after the other. Maybe someone will take pity on you. You’re going to need it.”

Taar smiles somewhat grimly then nods to Halamar, who steps forward and opens the doorway curtain. To my surprise, Taar offers his hand to me, palm upraised. I stare at it a moment before slipping my fingers into his. Even that small contact of skin against skin steadies me more than I like. We step together into the Meeting House.

Inside is dark and strangely cavernous. The scent of ilsevel blossoms permeates the atmosphere but intensified tenfold. I think it may be coming from the incense braziers strung from the line of pillars down the center of this massive space. There are window flaps in the higher rooftop portions of the tent, and sunlight falls in splashes on the floor, but otherwise all is deeply shadowed and indistinct.

Directly across from the doorway stands a dais. I can just discern the eight figures seated up there, not on chairs, butcross-legged on the floor. They are heavily robed, and from this distance look like nothing so much as an assortment of hunching owls.

A strange humming fills the air. Glancing to each side, I realize there are people in the shadows, close to thedakathwalls. Servants or slaves, I cannot guess which, all droning in eerie harmony. It reminds me vaguely of a licorneir song, though much simplified.

Taar begins to walk between those pillars and smoke braziers, adjusting his stride so that I need not trot to keep up with him. Solemnly, silently, we progress to the middle of thedakath.There Taar stops and holds out his free hand. “Velethuil, nelanei Nornala-so,” he says.

The eight owlish figures make no response.

Taar’s hand tenses under my fingers. “Courage,” he murmurs.

I cast him a withering glance. What have I demonstrated other than courage all morning? He’s the nervous one.

We continue at that same sedate pace until we stand just before the dais. I keep my head bent, but peer up through my lashes, taking in what I can of the eight elders. Each wears a robe of a different color, all adorned in the same intricately painted images I saw on thedakaths. The patterns are different, denoting the unique tribes I suspect. Their faces are all so wrinkled, I almost miss the fact that there are an equal number of men and women. This surprises me: I assumed all the elders were male. Gavarian women certainly wouldn’t have been invited to sit on a council. But the very oldest of these eight, positioned in prominence slightly forward from the rest, is a woman. Her robes pool around her, regal and strange, while she herself looks so decrepit, a breath of wind might flake all the dry, brittle skin from her bones. Yet her black eyes are sharp as two blades and fixed with keen hatred on me.

Taar speaks again in Licornyn. He seems to go on forever, but suddenly I hear my name. Remembering his command, I let go of his hand, take a single step forward, and drop to my knees. For a moment I freeze—which was it, left hand clasped around right, or right around left? I take a guess, change my mind at the last minute, and breathe out a long, steadying breath.

Then, very softly, I begin to speak the Licornyn words Taar taught me. Rather, I don’t speak them. I sing them. Using their musical rhythm, emphasizing the long vowels and trilling consonants, transforming the spoken word to song. As I sing, the low hum emanating from the chanters in the shadows blends in harmony with my voice.

The effect is miraculous. Divine. Sound fills the space around us, ripples out from the confines of those hide walls and rolls out across the land, not just the mountainous countryside in which these people dwell, but deep into the wilds of Cruor from which they were driven. It’s a song which feels as though it might keep growing, keep rippling, until it fills this whole world before sinking into the earth itself to vibrate at its core.

Taar gasps out loud and moves sharply beside me. I don’t let his reaction interrupt my flow. I keep singing until I reach the end of the phrase. My pronunciation is perhaps imperfect, but I trust the power of my gods-gift to carry it. A pity I’ve only just begun to discover a real use for this gift of mine beyond entertaining my father’s guests. I will probably die today and never learn how deep my power runs.

When I come to the end of the phrase, I let the last syllable linger on my lips. Then, closing my mouth tight, I press my clasped hands to my heart, daring only the briefest glance up at the elders.

The old woman—Halaema—stares down at me. Her eyes bulge out through layers of wrinkled skin folds. She holds up one withered hand, and the hummers in the shadows cease. Deadsilence holds the Meeting House captive like a spell. It feels like hours before she speaks, her voice harsh, an awful contrast to the sweetness of my song.

Taar answers at once in his rumbling baritone. I feel the power of kingship in his voice, even if I can’t understand the words. I would not have the courage to stand up to a man speaking in such a tone.

But the elder doesn’t hesitate. She lashes a response, and there follows a back-and-forth, all spoken in such rapid Licornyn, I can understand none of the individual words. One by one the other elders add their own voices to the discussion. Each time Taar answers them solemnly, while I continue to kneel, maintaining that posture with clasped hands. My knees ache and my spine throbs. It’s not unlike kneeling at the shrine of Lamruil. Only then I was preparing for marriage to the Shadow King, a fate I thought worse than death. Now? I suspect not even Taar can save me.

He sounds angry. Stepping forward, a little in front of me, he holds up his right arm and points at the invisiblevelra, as though the elders can see it. Some of them nod, but others toss up their hands and shake their heads, eyes rolling in disgust.

Finally Halaema turns from Taar and barks a string of words to a figure who stands off to one side of the dais. Risking the displeasure of everyone in the room, I turn my head to see Onor Gantarith step forward into a patch of sunlight. He carries his incense brazier and—my blood goes cold—a knife. A foot long at least, unsheathed and gleaming.

Gantarith makes reverence to the elders. Halaema barks something which sounds like a question. The priest turns, looks at me. Then he speaks a word I recognize:“Kya.”

I cannot tear my gaze from that knife. I know what has been asked and what answer has been given.

Can the bond be broken before New Moon Night?

Yes.

I swallow painfully and look up at Taar. His eyes are fixed on Gantarith, and there’s death in his gaze.

Suddenly, quicker than thought, he lunges the priest, snatches the knife from his grasp, and holds it to his own throat. A collective gasp goes up from the elders and the unseen figures on the edges of the chamber. Taar snarls a series of words, deep and threatening.

“Taar, no!” I cry and start to rise. To my surprise, a hand falls on my shoulder, pushing me back down. I turn, startled, and find Halamar behind me. “It would be best for both of you,” he whispers in my own tongue, “if you kept silent just now.”

I shake my head and hiss, “But what is he doing?”

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