Page 54 of HeartTorn

She pauses and looks back at me, her eyes searching for some hidden meaning in my face to belie my words. I meet her gaze honestly. I do truly wish her well. I want to see Tassa, or any of the eager Licornyn folk crowding outside the temple, bonded to that unicorn. I want to hear Nyathri’s song restored. The idea that Taar could kill her, ending that song forever . . . it’s unbearable.

As though coming to a decision, Tassa nods shortly and leaves the chamber. Still seated on my pallet, I look over at Halamar, struck suddenly by the fact that I am alone with this strange Licornyn man—a man who has just as much right to hate me as any other soul living out here on the edges of Cruor. A shudder runs down my spine. I pull my cloak tighter. But Halamar hardly seems aware of my existence. He's lost in a world of his own, that broken song swirling around him, a palpable atmosphere of despair.

“Do you love her still?”

I blink, surprised at my own words when they blurt out suddenly. I’d not intended to speak to him, much less to ask something so personal. Now the question hangs between us, caught in silence and the crackle of the fire.

Halamar turns his head slightly but does not quite look at me. Surprise lines his brow. He presses his lips tight, and I wonder if he either did not hear me or simply did not understand the question. Should I repeat myself? Or hold my foolish tongue?

I’m still deciding when he says: “That part of me died with Liossark. I am only what you see before you now: half a soul.”

I swallow painfully against the knot in my throat. In that same moment, a burst of screaming song echoes down the templehalls, rattling my senses. Tears prick my eyes. The pain in that song is so great, it seems to call to my own pain, buried not very deep inside. The loss, the guilt—it’s so much, so real. More real than anything else.

Strange how, though the brokenness is not unlike what I hear from Halamar, their songs do not sound similar to my ear. His song feels distant, though he’s right here in the room with me. But Nyathri’s song . . . it feels as though itbelongsto me.

26

TAAR

A young hunter named Malgathor approaches the altar, sweat dripping down his face. He sings as he approaches, a wordless song of his own, full of deep resonance and reverberation. He is a skilled singer; with the right licorneir, it would make for a powerful duet.

But I can hear within the first few notes that his song is all wrong for Nyathri. Perhaps at another time. Were Malgathor not so desperate. Were Nyathri not so hearttorn.

I repress a shudder. Pure exhaustion pulses through my limbs. It’s been hours now since I last set eyes on Ilsevel, and thevelracord burns into my flesh. The effort to fight its pull is almost more than I can bear. Damn this binding and the impulse that compelled me to make it in the first place! Who would have thought one small, human woman could make me so weak in the sight of my people?

I feel their eyes on me—the priests and the Licornyn riders gathered in the domed Moon Chamber in the center of Elanlein. Gantarith and his two brethren stand behind the altar, keeping some space between them and it. Their heads are bowed, their hands lifted in solemn prayersong, but I could swear they keep glancing at me through half-closed eyelids. Kildorath and the other Licornyn riders line the walls on either side of the altar, their licorneir beside them. The shimmering of consecrated fire glows from their souls as they blend their voices with the songs of the priests. Though they may appear focused on this sacredtask, I know they are watching me. Suspicion simmers in the atmosphere.

Every one of them saw the moment when Ilsevel intercepted me on the green. When she prevented me from carrying out the grim duty which must be performed. When she persuaded me to go against all reason, all tradition, all divinely-ordained sacrament.

I can almost hear the question whispering just on the other side of their song: “Does a human woman now control ourluinar?Has he fallen prey to human magic? Is hedrothlar?”

Drothlar—cursebound. The word whispered through the city streets when I rode by astride Elydark on the way back up to the temple. They believe Ilsevel is a Miphata who now holds me enthralled. And who am I to argue otherwise? While I’ve never seen sign of Miphates magic about her, she herself has admitted to consorting withnecroliphonmages. Then there’s that gods-gift of hers. Is it possible she used it to bewitch me? If she had, would I even know?

Memory of two nights ago flashes through my mind. My tongue in her mouth, my hand on her breast, the sweat and the heat and the panting of our breaths. I had felt like a man possessed. Desire overruled all rational thought. Could it be she had tricked me? Knowing how a night of passion would strengthen our bond, did she use my weakness against me?

Have I, blind to all warning signs, brought a spy into the Hidden City?

A sudden change in the song drags my attention back to the moment unfolding before the altar stone. Malgathor draws near now, his melody deepening in intensity. Nyathri kneels on the stone, her legs bent under her. Chaeora ropes bind her fast in place. I hate the sight of those ropes. Woven from the stalks of cursed chaeorablossoms—the hell-blighted counterparts of ilsevels—combined with strands of licorneir hair, they radiatea toxic form of magic that suppresses the fire of licorneir. It’s an abomination; an evil necessity. Nothing else in the world is strong enough to subdue a hearttorn licorneir. Before the Rift, no one would have dared to bind one of the glorious Star Children. Such is the evil of the age into which we’ve been driven.

I clench my fists, watching Malgathor’s approach. He is the fifth man to attempt the bonding—all others fled before they drew anywhere near the altar and the being bound to it. Nyathri’s red soulfire rages with hellish flame, and none could stand it. When the time comes, will I be able to get close enough to deal the death blow? The heat of her torment has only increased in the hours since we brought her here.

Still there are men and women lining up outside the temple, begging for a chance to try their fate. As long as they are willing, how can I stand in their way? And Malgathor is strong. He’s close to her now, no more than three steps away. His dark complexion is red and slick with sweat, and the skin of his outstretched hand begins to blister. He continues, singing his bold song. He is desperate to form avelarin, having failed to do so twice in the past. But this is not the bond for him—I know it. Everyone looking on knows it. His soul is not compatible with Nyathri’s. At least not with what her soul has become.

The thought has no sooner crossed my mind when Nyathri lunges. Her powerful, flame-wreathed haunches surge against the restricting chaeora ropes, and her neck extends. A warning shout bursts from my throat, but I’m too late. Her sharp fangs sink deep into Malgathor’s shoulder. Fire leaps from her skeletal flesh, burning him even as she shakes him so hard, his feet leave the ground. His song abruptly ends in screams of pain which echo against the stone dome and out through the skylight to the heavens above.

I leap into action, grip a length of chaeora and wrench the mad licorneir’s head back. The weakness, which has been building in my limbs these last few hours, threatens to undo me. With a burst of sheer will, I exert all my force and drag her head back, but not before she takes a chunk out of Malgathor’s flesh.

Kildorath and two other riders leap forward only a few heartbeats behind me. Their licorneir follow them, brandishing their horns in defense. Nyathri roars at them, her wild, rolling eyes incapable of seeing her former brothers and sisters. She exists in a hellish new world now, surrounded by enemies. None of us can help her see any other reality.

“Get him out of here!” My muscles strain as I fight to maintain my grip on her head. Nyathri whips about; those gnashing teeth of hers go for my throat. A blast of soulfire heat flares across my skin, ready to consume me.

With a bugling cry, Elydark charges. His horn clashes with Nyathri’s. A burst of white light pours out from him, enveloping me in protection, even as he holds Nyathri at bay. His red horn locks with her black one, and his song-filled eyes stare into the two pits of hell flaming in her skull.

Hastily I re-secure the chaeora rope, then back away from the altar, out of reach. “Elydark!” I call. At the sound of my voice, he backs away. Nyathri tosses her head once before lowering it, muzzle resting against the stone between her legs. She pants, exhausted, her exposed ribcage visibly heaving. Much of her flesh has burnt away, leaving only a skeletal apparition. I scarcely recognize the lithe and lovely being who used to gallop so fleet-footed across the plains while Ashika whooped battle cries from her saddle.

“Enough,luinar,”a voice beside me says. I turn to Onor Gantarith, who has left his brother priests to approach me. He shakes his head heavily. “It is a torment to her. She should have been slain and sent beyond the pain of this world hours ago.”

Guilt adds to the weariness permeating my frame. Gantarith is right of course; I should never have let Ilsevel convince me otherwise. “Very well, Onor,” I say. “I will do what must be done.”

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