Page 58 of HeartTorn

But there’s something in Elydark’s song, something in the vibration of music hovering on the edge of my awareness. I feelhis interest, his curiosity. And another feeling, fainter than the others but possibly deeper:hope.

“I can help her.” I don’t know why I say it. I certainly don’t know if it’s true. Who am I to think I have anything to offer one of these otherworldly beings? But Elydark has seen me perform the impossible once before. It was he who fetched me to save Taar, he who joined his voice with mine to drive out that darkness in his blood. He understands my gods-gift better than I do. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t alerted Taar already. Maybe that’s why we’re still standing here in this cold passage.

“Her song,” I continue softly, “I think I know how it might be fixed. I . . . I want to try. Before he kills her. I want to try.”

Elydark lowers his head. That coiled horn of his points straight at my heart. I nearly leap back, scramble through the curtain, and fall into the chamber, yelping with terror. But I stand firm. Even when he presses that tip against my flesh. I feel pressure but no sharpness. And in that point of connection, a line of song ripples from him into me, clearer than any sound I’ve heard from him since that night when we sang together. There are no words, just a feeling I can’t ignore.

I choose to trust you.

The vibrations are still rumbling in my soul when he turns and walks up the passage, surprisingly silent for so great a beast. His massive hooves seem not to strike the stone at all as he glides along, phantomlike.

Heart still hammering, I follow. My own booted feet make far more noise. Every few paces, I half-expect angry priests to leap around some dark corner and collar me. Ilsevel blossoms cling to the walls in places, and they seem to open their petals, turning to greet Elydark as he passes by, their delicate harmonies blending with his soul-song. I would like to listen, to analyze the intricacies of that strange music more closely.

But before long a thread of dissonance works its way through. It’s so soft at first, I almost don’t notice it. As we progress, however, though it never increases in volume, it captures my attention so acutely, I can no longer focus on any other song. It’s ugly, broken, with a purposeful viciousness to it. Like it would destroy the other melodies if it could figure out how to work itself into them.

Elydark stops abruptly. I nearly run into him, and his silky tail flicks in my face. Spitting out unicorn hair, I back up a step and pull my attention away from that song. He’s led me to an arched doorway. Beyond lies the same domed chamber in which Taar and I met the old priest last night. Only now, rather than moonlight, it’s filled with a dense, smoky atmosphere, like some great conflagration recently consumed this space.

In the center of that smoke, kneeling on the huge altar stone and bound with harsh black and silver cords, is Nyathri.

My heart lurches. She looks horrible, worse than before. Her flesh is peeled away from her body, leaving only the blackened skeleton beneath. There’s no trace of fire now, only smoke rising in coils from her ruinous frame. Her head is bent, her flaming eyes darkened to blacked-out pits.

But worst of all is that song radiating from her. A song of destruction, rage, and, most of all, hatred. Hatred for whom, I cannot say, but . . . but part of me suspects. Part of me knows.

I move to stand at Elydark’s shoulder and peer into that hazy atmosphere. To my surprise, he trembles. Is he afraid? I never would have thought it possible. I place a hand on his shoulder, whether to offer or take comfort, I’m not sure. Gods above, am I a fool for thinking I could fix such a song? Probably. No one’s ever accused me of an overabundance of wisdom; I’ve always been a creature of impulse and passion. It’s simply how I’m made. Were I my older sister, Faraine, I would perhapsstop now to question my next steps, to consider the potential ramifications of the action I mean to take.

But I am not Faraine.

I step away from Elydark, moving into that large space. Smoke stings my eyes and my nostrils, and, for a moment, I fear I won’t be able to sing. Then another wave of dissonance rolls over me, and I hear in it the half-memory of a melodic echo. It’s so faint and yet so alluring, I cannot help opening my mouth and trying to give it voice.

The unicorn looks up. Fire springs to life in her eyes, ripples out across her face, down her neck, over her withers and haunches. She tosses her head, struggling against those awful ropes, which do not seem affected by her fire in the least. I hate the sight of them, binding her proud, strong limbs so cruelly to that stone.

Still singing, I move closer. The heat from her flame is intense, but somehow it seems not to matter. I both feel it and don’t feel it; like the discomfort, even the pain, is happening to some other version of me, some version I don’t really care about, while the real me continues unaffected.

Nyathri watches my approach. She gnashes her teeth, looking positively demonic. Her song bursts from her in ugly waves, without rhythm or melody. Loss, guilt, shame, fury, hatred . . . they sing out in clamorous combinations, each one of them all too familiar. But that familiarity makes them less terrible somehow. Or, at the very least, less surprising. Every time they strike, I find a way to modulate my voice, to make it duck in, under, or around the belching, crashing noise of her spirit. It’s not exactly harmony, but it’s not wildly off.

I draw closer to her, closer to that stone. All the ilsevel blossoms, which had grown in such abundance in this space only last night, have disintegrated into little ash piles, their dustthickening the already smoky air. I struggle to breathe, and my song weakens. But I don’t stop my approach.

Those binding ropes are ugly things. Black fibers twisted with silver threads, they cut into what little remains of her flesh and even seem to dig into her exposed skeleton. Now that I’m close, I hear a faint vibration coming off them, but it feels all wrong, like holy licorneir melody snarled up with the un-song of thevardimnar.It’s evil, pure evil, I’m sure of it. But it keeps Nyathri subdued.

I frown. Are those cords also preventing her song from joining with mine? I feel thealmostin her dissonance, feel the possibility of harmony unrealized. Only I cannot seem to reach her. It’s those ropes, I’m almost sure of it.

I reach for the knife at my belt. Nyathri’s eyes flash. “Don’t worry,” I murmur, allowing music to permeate my words. “I won’t hurt you. Let’s get you free of those nasty things, shall we?”

She looks me straight in the eye. For a moment I’m caught in the spell of her song—in the eye of the storm that is her shame. It surrounds me, overcomes me, fills up my heart. Making its way to the space where I hold the death of my sister, Nyathri’s guilt finds my own and latches onto it.

I should have saved her.

It was my fault.

My fault.

Where is the harmony in this song? Where is the healing for the brokenness? We are too alike, our songs, our souls too bent and fractured to be of use to each other. The fire burning across her body leaps from her spirit to mine. It will consume me. Perhaps it already has.

“Ra drothei!”

The voice bursts across my awareness, breaking through layers of song and fire to strike my physical ears. Startled, I whirland peer through the smoke haze across the domed chamber. A figure appears, looming large and threatening. A man, mounted on a licorneir, his sword arm upraised over his head. Kildorath.

I have moments in which to act. My body feels as though it’s moving in half-time, like the heavy limb-numbness of dreams has taken hold. Even as Kildorath shouts again in his tongue, even as he spurs his licorneir forward, I turn slowly, slowly, painfully. Nyathri’s eyes burn me with hatred, but I stagger toward her, knife outstretched.

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