Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

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  For Rosemary Edghill, without whom Vieliessar’s story would never have been told.

  —JAMES MALLORY

  PROLOGUE

  DARKNESS VISIBLE

  Before Time itself came to be, He Who Is had been: changeless, eternal, perfect. And all was Darkness, and He Who Is ruled over all there was.

  Then came the Light, dancing through the perfection of the Dark, separating it into Dark and not-Dark. Making it a finite, a bounded thing. Where there had been silence, and Void, and infinity, there came music, and not-Void, and Time …

  A world.

  He Who Is lashed out against this debasement, and the Light realized He Who Is meant to take from it the beautiful world of shape and form and time and boundary it had created. Light could not destroy the Darkness without destroying itself, but it could bring life to flourish where destruction had walked.

  And to this life, it gave weapons. The new life was as changeable as He Who Is was changeless. Light Itself coursed through its veins, and Light fell in love with silver life. Light left the high vault of heaven and scattered itself across the land, and silver life traveled to the places of the Light to rejoice in it.

  But He Who Is vowed He would win in the end. This time, He bound His war into time, to let His tools learn from the enemy He would ultimately destroy. To all the things of the Light, He Who Is held up a dark mirror. For the Bright World, a World Without Sun. For life and love, death and pain. For trust, treachery. For kindness, power.

  For skill … magic.

  For Life … The Endarkened.

  The Endarkened swept forth from Obsidian Mountain and glutted themselves upon blood and pain. The land around Obsidian Mountain became a wasteland where nothing lived, and each night they ranged farther.

  And it was still not enough.

  The children of He Who Is were bound by the laws of time and matter, and in that realm even His vast power could not create a sorcery that did not require payment. The power of the Endarkened came from the pain and fear of their victims and from the anguish and despair of their victims’ deaths. Each spell they cast was paid for in the blood and suffering of slaves.

  The first Elflings the Endarkened took cried out to Aradhwain the Mare, and wept for the vast openness of the Goldengrass. Time passed in the Bright World, and the Elfling victims cried out to the Sword-Giver and the Bride of Battles, to Amretheon and Pelashia, to the Starry Hunt.

  None of their Bright World Powers saved them.

  Then one day, a captive struck back with the Light itself. Once, the Elflings had possessed no magic. Now they did. In the changeable world of form and time, the Light had hidden the only weapon which could slay the eternal, beautiful children of He Who Is. Only the arrogance of the Light had disclosed its secret, for had it not shared that secret with the Elvenkind, the Endarkened would have remained ignorant of it …

  Until too late.

  The King of the Endarkened threw himself into preparations for the coming war as never before.

  * * *

  If Virulan had been stupid, he would have been long dead. Virulan was not stupid, and so he was not dead, but remaining king in the World Without Sun was a thing that took work.

  He’d been preparing for the Red Harvest for nearly as long as he had been promising it to his subjects. As their numbers grew, so did the numbers of those he bred in his nurseries in the Cold North to be their allies. He was not foolish enough to imagine denying his fellow Endarkened the opportunity to slaughter every living thing in the world. But the Life he meant to scour from the world in the name of He Who Is was vast and intricate, and his subjects impatient. They would slaughter Elvenkind and Centaurs and everything that had a heartbeat with glee, of course—but all Life, Silver and Red and Green, must die. His beasts were not impatient, nor were they ever bored. They were only hungry.

  And best of all, when everything else was gone, his brethren could destroy them as well. A final treat, before they returned to blessed nothingness and the Void. That reunion was nothing so ordinary as death. If it had been, the Endarkened would have ended their own lives long ago. Death was ugly and terrifying. It held the hint of an eternal living, an eternal awareness, even—dreadfully—transmutation and rebirth. The threat that lay behind death for every Endarkened was the horrifying possibility of discovering themselves somehow housed within Brightworlder flesh, their surviving atomie of self screaming in endless torment in a Life-prison.

  No. Reunion with He Who Is was eternal darkness, eternal joy, eternal—perfect—utter—nothingness.

  But such joy must be earned, by completing the task He had set them.

  And so he summoned the remainder of the Twelve to the Heart of Darkness.

  * * *

  In the vast sweep of time that stretched from their creation to this moment, the Heart of Darkness had … changed. First, a throne and a crown for its King. Then, walls and floor and arching vault ornamented with representations of the infinite complexity and beauty of pain. There was even light, for what use was there in creating a cathedral of agony and terror if its most perfect sacraments could not see the stages of their apotheosis? But today there were no Brightworlders to tease and enlighten, and so the Heart of Darkness held only the absolute lightlessness of its first creation. The Endarkened had no need of light.

  “You have summoned us, great King Virulan,” Uralesse said obsequiously. “We are eager to hear your words.”

  Uralesse was a problem. Virulan knew that. His foremost rival, the only other Endarkened who remained as He Who Is had made them—and thus, Virulan’s greatest rival. Uralesse hoped to sow dissention among Virulan’s subjects, all of whom chafed at the restraint their King had placed upon them.

  “As you know, my dearest comrades, the time of the Red Harvest is not yet upon us,” Virulan began. A faint rustling of wings greeted those words, for though none of his people dared to defy him—not openly, at least—they were emboldened by their own numbers. “And I know you grow restive at the thought of so many lives unclaimed.”

  Bold or not, none of the Created dared to speak. Virulan allowed the silence to stretch before he spoke again.

  “And yet, know that I, your King, feel that impatience as my own. I will not deviate from my plan, for it is a glorious one, but it has come to me that there is one place in the Bright World where we may hunt the Elflings with no chance of discovery—one infestation we may cleanse without giving warning to the others before the glorious day of the Red Harvest.” The rustling of wings grew louder, and now it was a sound of anticipation, not discontent. “Because of the great love I bear for you
, my first comrades in this great task He Who Is gave to us, I give this place to you alone.” He gestured expansively, giving them permission to speak, and the Heart of Darkness filled with the susurrant noise of praise and exclamations.

  “To us?” Shurzul’s cry rose above the rest. “Now? My King—never had I hoped to even witness such generosity, let alone partake of it!”

  “This is only the beginning of the wonders of the Red Harvest,” Virulan said. “My darlings, this day I give to you the place called Hallorad, the most far-flung of the Elfling domains. Soon, I shall give you … all of them.”

  The Heart of Darkness rang with Endarkened cries of joy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SNOW MOON TO ICE MOON: THE END OF ALL THINGS

  One cannot pledge fealty to the wind.

  —Elven Proverb

  From Rade Moon to Storm Moon, Winter High Queen was the true ruler of the Grand Windsward. Only the Flower Forests, locked in their eternal Springtide, were exempt from snow and cold, and Elvenkind did not enter the Flower Forests.

  It is a great mystery, Gonceivis Haldil mused once again, that we draw our ultimate power from a place we dare not go.

  In the West, Lightborn might enter the Flower Forests whenever they chose—save, perhaps, on the Western Shore, and there it was merely dangerous. Only in the Grand Windsward was it impossible, for in the Grand Windsward, the Beastlings ruled. The Beastlings had been the enemy of Elvenkind since before Amretheon had reigned. They were monstrous and cruel, a terrible parody of Elvenkind in shape and manner. Centaurs—Minotaurs—Gryphons—there was no end to their horror, the shapes they came in … or their bestial sorcery.

  Gryphons had weather magic at their command; Aesalions could control the hearts of their prey; Bearwards were masters of sickness and plague. The Minotaurs slaughtered Elvenkind’s herds and flocks, and Centaurs razed their villages. Sorcery could only be fought with Light, and so in the Grand Windsward, the Lightborn went regularly into battle. Mosirinde’s Covenant demanded that the Lightborn draw their power from the Flower Forests alone, and by Mosirinde’s Covenant, Elvenkind was bound to a dreadful bargain, for the Flower Forests were home to a thousand races of Beastling: fairy and sprite, dryad and Faun, nymph and gnome and pixie. To keep the Covenant, the Lightborn must hold sacrosanct the strongholds of their enemy, for those strongholds were the only source of their protection from that same enemy.

  At least Winter brings us some respite from the eternal battle, Gonceivis thought. In Snow Moon, Haldil—first among the Houses of the Grand Windsward—opened its doors in revelry and celebration to any of the Hundred Houses who wished to enter. If the sennight of the Midwinter Festival was named a time of tacit truce throughout the Fortunate Lands, here in the Grand Windsward the Midwinter Truce was more than empty words.

  Gonceivis Haldil looked down the length of his Great Hall. Its ceiling was low, the better to defend them from the incursions of fairies and pixies. It had no windows, for even an arrow slit could provide entrance to a Faun. It was so vast that there was not one Storysinger performing before the High Table, but rather half a dozen performers scattered among the revelers. The talk and laughter echoing from the banner-hung stone hushed the sounds as easily as a spell of silence might. Gonceivis had little interest in songs, and as War Prince he could see Lightborn Magery any time he chose. The entertainer chosen for the High Table was a Lightless illusionist: one who used deft trickery to make a pretense of Magery. He watched, diverted, as she turned one disk into two, then a dozen, then juggled them deftly. They glowed in the Silverlight set upon the walls and ceiling, flashing brightly before they returned to her hands. When they vanished, she replaced them with lengths of shining gilt ribbon that continuously swirled through the air. The fire trenches that crossed the floor were golden with coals, and one of the ribbons, swooping too close, burst into flame. For a moment Gonceivis thought this was an error, and made a note to have the steward who had chosen her flogged, but then all the ribbons burst into flame to become lanterns, then batons, and at last a single white bird. The illusionist flung the dove toward the ceiling; it flew along the line of war banners that hung upon the walls, their bright heraldry cooled by the Silverlight’s soft radiance. The banners belled softly in the rising waves of heat, and at last the bird vanished behind one of them.

  The Lightless illusionist swept him a low bow, and Gonceivis tossed her his empty cup in reward of her skill. She caught it with another low bow, then ran toward one of the staircases that entered the hall at its four corners.

  “Thank the Light that’s over,” Ladyholder Belviel said. “My father had no patience with such trickery.”

  “Your father did not rule in Haldil,” Gonceivis told her. He chewed thoughtfully upon a salted fig as his cupbearer brought him a new cup and filled it with wine. It was not the plain and lightweight sort he’d tossed to the performer, its worth only in the gold of which it was made: this was a massive thing, carved and jeweled, and capable of holding six gills of wine.

  “Nor did my father lead his House into ruinous rebellion,” Belviel responded, choosing a morsel of cheese from the tray before her.

  “As I recall, you did not find it objectionable when we began,” Gonceivis said.

  “I was fond of Demi-Prince Malbeth,” his wife replied placidly. “A pity he did not survive.”

  “A pity we did not know that had we but waited half a century we could have had the victory without the war,” Gonceivis snapped.

  A Wheelturn ago last Harvest, Oronviel fell to the last child of Farcarinon. At Midwinter, Vieliessar sent messages inviting the Windsward to rise up as her allies. The Windsward had declined Vieliessar’s gracious invitation—still smarting from its inglorious defeat fifty Wheelturns before—but it had watched with interest. It was Serenthon Farcarinon’s madness reborn, but the daughter outstripped the father. She struck the shackles of Mosirinde’s Covenant from the Magery of the Lightborn. She armed the Landbonds and offered full pardon to any outlaw who would pledge to her. In War Season, half the Houses of the West fell to her in a handful of moonturns, and the rest, plunged into madness, formed a Grand Alliance, following her over the Mystrals. The Windsward Houses promptly proclaimed their independence from the West for the second time in a scant half-century. Vieliessar sent demands of fealty and the Grand Alliance sent demands for aid. Haldil and the rest of the Windsward Houses ignored them both.

  No one expected the war to continue beyond moonturn.

  Mirwathel, Haldil’s Chief Storysinger, stepped forward to begin The Courtship of Amretheon and Pelashia. Gonceivis did his best to conceal a wince; it was a very long song. It was also the signal for all who had left childhood behind in the past year to gather before the High Table, and for the Lightborn to come to await them, for this was the sixth night of Midwinter, and on this night, everywhere across the whole of the Fortunate Lands, the Lightborn would Call the Light. Each Lightborn had a servant by their side; each servant held a basket filled with sweets and ribbons. Silver ribbons for those who would go to the Sanctuary in the spring, gold for those who would not.

  If anyone goes anywhere in the spring, Gonceivis thought, for this had been a Wheelturn of wonders.

  Kaelindiel Bethros raised his cup in a mocking toast. He was seated at Gonceivis’s tuathal side, the place of greatest honor. “So we are once more in rebellion, Lord Gonceivis. Only … against whom, this time?”

  “I see no rebellion here,” Gonceivis answered evenly. “Haldil is held in clientage by Caerthalien, as Bethros is by Aramenthiali. If they are no more, well, one cannot pledge fealty to the wind.”

  “But now—so they say—we are to have a High King. The Child of the Prophecy, perhaps, as Haldil once foretold—though, perhaps, prematurely,” Kaelindiel answered.

  “Then I wonder why you did not declare for Oronviel when Lord Vieliessar first sent to you,” Gonceivis said tartly.

  “Had I done so, I would be now as her princes are,” Kaelindiel said. “Mourning
so many dead no Tablet of Memory could contain them all.”

  The first of the children reached the waiting Lightborn. A brief touch, hand upon head, and it was done. Gold ribbons only, as was only to be expected: the nobles and the offspring of the Lords Komen were first, and Light was rarely found there.

  “Yet her cause endures,” Gonceivis said.

  “Are your spies less able than mine?” Kaelindiel asked archly. “She flees. The Alliance follows.”

  “And Thurion Lightbrother tells us she will win, and we must pledge,” Gonceivis answered. This was old news to them both: Thurion Lightbrother had come seeking alliance for his master moonturns ago—and many had listened. Kerethant, Penenjil, Enerchelimier, Artholor … nearly a taille of Windsward Houses had declared for Lord Vieliessar before Thurion Lightbrother headed Westward again. Let them go, Gonceivis told himself. Let them all go. Let Kerethant and Artholor strip themselves of defenders. Let Enerchelimier follow a dream.

  “Perhaps Penenjil’s Silver Swords will grant her victory,” Kaelindiel said. “It is an omen, you must agree. The Silver Swords have not left Penenjil since the fall of the High King.”

  “The last High King,” Gonceivis corrected. “If she is to have her way.”

  “Let her be High King, or Astromancer, or the Mother of Dragons,” Kaelindiel answered dismissively. “I care not, so long as she does it elsewhere. Perhaps she and the Twelve will devour one another and leave us in peace. And if she calls those Windsward Houses which have declared for her to her battlefield, well … a domain is not merely its grand array. There will be Landbonds and Craftworkers in plenty seeking protection.”

  “Peace is what you and I most desire, of course,” Gonceivis answered. He smiled as the first silver ribbon of the night was placed in a child’s hands.

  If Vieliessar Oronviel can become High King, so may Gonceivis Haldil, he thought to himself. A Kingdom is land, and wealth—and armies. It is not an empty throne. Or a handless sword.