Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I am certain Lord Sedreret will wish to lead his meisne in the field,” Vieliessar said, stepping forward. There was a flurry as they all turned to face her. She seated herself, and indicated they should do likewise.

  The moment they were all seated, Sedreret spoke. “We’re going to war?” he demanded eagerly. “Against who? The Windsward, of course! Haldil was ever ready to declare itself lord of all. I can—”

  “I send my army north, not east,” Vieliessar said quietly.

  “Nantirworiel Pass isn’t open yet anyway,” Methothiel Nantirworiel said, with a sneer in Sedreret’s direction.

  “To ride to war at all is, perhaps, somewhat hasty,” Lord Ivaloriel suggested. “We are barely a fortnight delivered of a victory that is the culmination of moonturns of siege, battle, march. In four moonturns it will be Sword Moon once more. Perhaps then.”

  “The Uradabhur cannot wait,” Vieliessar said. “Nor can the spring planting.”

  “Planting!” Girelrian Cirandeiron cried. “Are we Farmholders now?”

  “Do you want to eat this winter?” Nadalforo asked silkily. “I do. And that means getting the seed into the ground.”

  “But surely, Lord Vieliessar, there are enough Farmfolk here to feed us,” Lord Cirandeiron protested.

  “The whole of my people are not here,” Vieliessar answered. “Nor do I renounce claim to any of my lands, old or new.”

  “It’s still winter!” Sedreret exclaimed, as if he were the only one aware of that fact.

  “Seasons change,” Tunonil said softly. That he spoke at all among these nobles and princes was a tiny miracle—for Tunonil was Landbond—and Vieliessar cherished it. Nadalforo snorted in agreement, and Isilla Lightsister smirked. The War Princes pretended Tunonil had not spoken. Already Vieliessar could see that her council divided itself between War Princes and those who had been mercenaries, outlaws, Landbond … Lightborn.

  Vieliessar let them bicker for a while, more to learn what they were thinking because she thought any plan might arise. Ivaloriel Telthorelandor was quiet, as she’d expected. Finfemeras Vondaimieriel was loudly confrontational—well, Vondaimieriel had little to lose or gain here, and probably relished the chance to tweak the noses of its former allies and masters. Sedreret Aramenthiali found something to protest in every word spoken. Iardalaith and Thurion said nothing at all.

  At last Vieliessar had heard all she wished to.

  “My lords, my commanders, my advisors,” she said, with a small nod including her Lightborn and commonfolk in the salutation. “You mistake me. I do not wish to hear your thoughts on whether or not I should secure the Uradabhur and make provision for the springtide planting. I have determined that it shall be done. I would hear how you propose to do it.”

  She expected Iardalaith to speak now, for the Warhunt had functioned as her scouts through the whole of her war, and the first thing any campaign required was information. The Lightborn were the obvious choice to send as envoys to the unpledged War Princes, and yet Iardalaith said nothing—nor did any of the other Lightborn present.

  “We must send scouting parties first.” It was Lord Ivaloriel who finally stated the obvious. “Komen, of course. A taille or two. With servants, the parties can be kept to fifty at most.”

  “You’ll send one or two of your new Lawspeakers with each, of course,” Rithdeliel said.

  To bridge the chasm in leadership created by the amalgamation of all the domains into one, Vieliessar had created a new guild. The Lawspeakers’ only purpose was to go among the people and remind them of the High King’s new decrees: that Landbond were not property, that the Lords Komen had no right of justice that transgressed her law, that the War Princes were subject to her will—and that she would tolerate neither theft nor violence among her folk.

  “Yes,” Vieliessar agreed. “A taille of knights and a taille of infantry to each party. Tomorrow we shall set a timetable and begin to prepare our campaign,” she said. “My Windsward Houses will come to me as soon as the passes open, and their presence will help to restore order. Lord Methothiel, can you say when the Nantirworiel Pass will open?”

  “It will be another moonturn at least, Lord Vieliessar,” he said. “And you would be well advised to scout it in force; Foxhaven Free Company holds lands there, as you know, nor did it choose to take the field when I came west. It is possible their commander has grown overbold in my absence.”

  “Captain Voldionas is an old acquaintance of mine,” Nadalforo said, smiling wolfishly. She had no need to remind anyone here she had once been captain of a Free Company. “If he holds the pass, I am certain I can make him see reason.”

  “Let it be so,” Vieliessar said. She stood, signaling the end of the council. Servants began furling the walls, turning the pavilion into a canopy: Vieliessar had no intention of permitting a permanent stronghold against Magery to stand in the very center of her encampment.

  With her escort behind her—she thought longingly of the long-ago days at the Sanctuary of the Star, when she had answered to no one but the Mistress of Servants—Vieliessar walked back to her own pavilion.

  Waging the peace would be very much like waging a war. She knew that already. And for war, she must have Lightborn.

  * * *

  It was a few candlemarks past sunfall when Vieliessar slipped unnoticed from her pavilion and walked toward the Flower Forest. She wore a long hooded cloak; to make herself appear as one of the many servants who tended the Lords Komen was an illusion that required no Magery, for the lords paid no attention to the commonborn. It was a weakness she intended to turn to her advantage for as long as she could.

  And what then? she asked herself, and had no answer. To be High King did not mean she was safe against treachery: the peace of victory would last precisely as long as her War Princes refrained from rebellion. Some were loyal to her in their hearts. Some were loyal to the Way of the Sword. Some—like Aramenthiali—were loyal only to themselves, for this was the Game of War the Hundred Houses had played since before Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor had fallen.

  Vieliessar played a different game, and in it the War Princes were but one force upon the board. The Lightborn were another, and she meant to know whether they were her allies … or not.

  * * *

  Tildorangelor’s living magic enfolded her as she walked down the path which led to the place the Lightborn had made for themselves. The forest glowed with Silverlight, but only enough to banish total darkness. At the edge of the first clearing she stopped, and an instant later, a youth stepped into view. Without the Light, she would not have known he was there at all, for instead of dun cloth or garb of Lightborn green, his tunic and leggings were painted in a dappled pattern of greens and browns. He wore a cloak, but not for warmth: it was a thing of strips and tatters, meant to conceal his shape and to fool the eye even further.

  “Mistress,” he said quietly. “I think you have lost your way.”

  Vieliessar pushed her hood back. The youth was not Lightborn, for if he were, he would have sensed the Light within her. A puzzle, and one she hoped Iardalaith might be willing to solve. “I have not,” she said. “I come to speak with … with my friends. If they will welcome me.”

  He recognized her then, and his eyes widened. But she had not named herself, so he did not, either. “Come, if you will,” he said.

  She did not know precisely what she expected to see, but it was not what she found. She saw no servants and no masters. The Lightborn themselves tended to the humble tasks of washing dishes, bringing water, even preparing bread for the ovens. The few grand pavilions clearly had communal uses. There was a fire at the center of the clearing. Hearthfire—homefire—as much as cookfire. A few Lightborn sat around it.

  “These here will direct you to your friend,” the boy said, gesturing.

  “May I know to whom I should give thanks for that?” Vieliessar asked gently. She had no need to ask, for True Speech had brought her his name—Leron—and his thoughts. But she wished to
claim what she knew, and even to ask his name directly would be a demand: he knew who she was.

  “To no one,” Leron said simply, returning up the path as quietly and softly as he’d come.

  Vieliessar stepped into the clearing and stopped just outside the radius of the fire’s heat. There were about a dozen Lightborn present. They were none she knew, so they must be among the few survivors of the Alliance Lightborn. Ivrulion’s Banespell had taken a heavy toll upon their numbers. Suddenly, the thought of coming boldly and demanding Iardalaith, or Aradreleg, or Isilla, or even Thurion seemed as wrong as imposing her will on the Flower Forest itself. She waited silently, thinking again of her years in the Sanctuary of the Star.

  “We can see you, you know,” one of the women said.

  “And so I am seen,” Vieliessar agreed mildly. “I come in hopes of having speech with friends.”

  “Don’t you have enough of those back at your fine pavilion?” a boy asked. The bitterness in his voice was surprising, and Vieliessar sensed the others at the fire catch their breaths.

  “My truest friends in life lie dead,” she answered, with an honesty that shocked even her. “Unless I can claim friends here.”

  “Sit,” the Lightbrother sitting beside the boy said, indicating an empty seat. “There is tea,” he added.

  “Tea is welcome,” Vieliessar answered, accepting a cup. It was not, to her surprise, the usual Forest Hearth blend, but something surprising and complex. A tea-blend worthy of the Sanctuary itself. “Very welcome,” she added, drinking more deeply.

  A few moments later, Thurion and Iardalaith arrived—summoned, Vieliessar was certain, by young Leron. They looked more puzzled than anything else, as if neither could believe the message until they saw her.

  “My—” Iardalaith began, but Vieliessar held up a hand to silence him.

  “I come as a friend to speak with friends,” she said. “Let my name be Varuthir beneath the trees, and let all use it freely.”

  “I remember Varuthir well, and fondly,” Thurion said with a soft smile. “What would Varuthir have of us?”

  “Nothing you would not freely give,” she answered.

  “And who has ever cared for that?” the boy who had spoken before asked. “Lightborn are the pawns and the tools of the High Houses.”

  “Miras—” Iardalaith began.

  “No!” Miras said. “I say it is true and will always be true.”

  “True once,” Vieliessar said. “But now you are free. The High King has said it.”

  “So now we are the tools of the High King instead,” Miras said harshly.

  The look the others turned on Vieliessar was half horror, half speculation, and Vieliessar knew she was to be judged by her words. “No,” Vieliessar said. “The Lightborn are free. But I have heard many songs of freedom from the Landbond these past sunturns, and as many complaints of it from the komen, so I say this: freedom does not mean you will be given food and shelter and warm clothing for the asking. Nor does it mean you can steal what you wish. Freedom means justice for all. And work for all.”

  “And peace?” Thurion asked quietly.

  “I hope for that as well, my dear friend, but the road to that seems as long as it ever did,” she said with a sigh.

  “But there’s hope now,” Iardalaith said. “Miras, you are still an idiot,” he added.

  “I don’t see the Lords Komen plowing,” Miras muttered.

  Vieliessar laughed. “I don’t see you plowing, either, Miras Lightbrother,” she said. “There will be work enough for the Lords Komen in a moonturn or two. The war has been a needful thing. This I will not deny—nor should you, who reap the sweet fruits of the victory. But it has left much damage in its wake, and that must be repaired.”

  “How can you repair anything with a sword?” another Lightborn asked. “We have seen what comes of trying,” he added sadly.

  “And for that I grieve,” Vieliessar answered. “For the Lightborn have suffered most of all in this. Partly at Ivrulion’s hand. Partly at the hands of the War Princes. Partly at mine.”

  “No!” Iardalaith’s answer was quick. “You saved us.”

  “And swore an end to lord and to Landbond,” Thurion said, as if she needed reminding. “Though I do not see how it is to be accomplished.”

  “To end the Landbond takes only a decree,” Vieliessar said. “To end the habit of treating people as if they are of less worth than a sheep or a dog will take longer. And I hope many of the once-Landbond will become Farmfolk, or indeed we shall all starve,” she finished with a smile. “It is as I have said.”

  She could sense the crowd that had gathered in the shadows beyond the fire. All of them come to hear her. And many of them come to see her for the first time.

  “As Varuthir has said, or as Vieliessar has said?” Miras asked cagily.

  “Both,” Vieliessar answered. “If Varuthir may speak, then Vieliessar’s pledge is redeemed.”

  There was quiet and appreciative laughter at that, for the Lightborn valued wit and a clever turn of phrase. “But you have come seeking your friends,” a Lightbrother said. “And morning comes early, even in winter. We should leave you to your talk.”

  Vieliessar glanced up at Iardalaith. “I will speak here before all, if you choose.”

  “Yes,” Iardalaith said with a sigh, lowering himself to the ground beside her at last. As if that were some signal, Thurion sat as well. “We would all hear your words. And I confess, to speak here will save me the trouble of repeating them a hundred times for every ear,” he added, looking around at the others.

  “Then that is well, and I will begin. But first I will wonder: Why it is the Lightborn live apart? It cannot be that they have cause for fear.”

  “We don’t fear,” Isilla Lightsister said, stepping into the circle of firelight. “They do. The—The Lightless. They have seen what Ivrulion Oathbreaker did. And they think we will do with them as we please.”

  Mosirinde’s Covenant was the instrument that had kept the Lightborn from engaging in war until Vieliessar had come. But it was not the true Covenant that had done that, only the vast web of custom that had grown up around it. The Covenant itself only limited and prescribed the sources from which a Lightborn might draw power. The War Princes’ interpretation of it had added a thousand other proscriptions, all meant to keep the Lightborn in servitude.

  “They think the Lightborn will use their power as the komen use their swords,” Vieliessar said, nodding. “It is true that it can be done, for what can heal can also harm. Nor are any of the Lightless safe from Overshadowing,” she added, and Isilla bowed her head in acknowledgment of her own Keystone Gift. “But I say—the High King says—it is not to be,” Vieliessar added. “The Lightborn will use their Light to defend themselves, as the komen might use their battle-skill. But no other, and no more. And the Covenant remains unbroken, now and forever.”

  Silence greeted her words.

  “They look at us and see Ivrulion,” Isilla repeated at last. “And so do we,” she added sorrowfully. This time there was a murmur of agreement from the gathered spectators, soft and sad.

  “For that I have no remedy,” Vieliessar answered quietly. “And for that I grieve.”

  There was silence again for a few moments. The fire hissed and popped, throwing out bright sparks. As the night darkened, the Silverlight became brighter, until it was a thousand tiny moons hung among the trees.

  “That you ask if we are well is a comfort,” Iardalaith said at last. “That you come to remind us we are free is good as well. If we are free … We have only shame for our enemy, not fear. But you came for more than this.”

  “I did,” Vieliessar agreed. “The High King sends scouts to bring peace to the Uradabhur. It would be good if Lightborn rode with them.” Even now she spoke no words that could be construed as orders, for the High King’s lightest whim, she knew, held the force of law to those beneath her.

  At that Iardalaith laughed, sounding startled. “To heat th
eir water and gentle their horses?” he asked.

  “To heal their wounds,” Vieliessar corrected. “To go as envoys who will not be struck down—”

  (“We hope,” Isilla muttered.)

  “—and to go secretly before my komen, bringing word and warning, so there will be as little fighting as possible,” Vieliessar finished. “The komen may heat their own water over a brazier, if they cannot find a servant who will willingly tend them.”

  “What Iardalaith is too proud to say,” Isilla said into the lengthening silence that followed, “is that we can do few of those things the Lords Komen are accustomed to ask of their Lightborn, even were we ordered at swordspoint, save perhaps act as envoy. The Flower Forests of the Uradabhur are drained. They have no more to give.”

  This was something Vieliessar had not considered, though she knew better than most the cost of the disastrous flight through the Uradabhur. The High King’s War had been a war of spells as much as of steel, and the Flower Forests had suffered. Only Tildorangelor remained a wellspring of power, safe behind its enchanted boundary stones.

  “There is a way,” Thurion said. “The Flower Forests of the southern Uradabhur are drained, it is true. But we went only as far east as Niothramangh, and while it is true that most of the Domains of the Uradabhur lie in a line, all do not. The eastern and northern domains will still have Light to draw upon. If their boundary stones are removed, it will be available to any of us.”

  The boundary stones that marked the borders of each domain were bespelled to prevent just such a thing from happening, for otherwise a battle in War Season would drain the Light from domains hundreds of leagues distant.

  “I can only order it done in such lands where the High King’s orders will be obeyed,” Vieliessar pointed out. “It is a good thought, but how is it to be done?”

  “By Lightborn,” Isilla Lightsister said. “A touch will Dispell them, and no Lightless will know. There are Lightborn still in those domains. They will do it, I think—if we can promise we will leave them enough Light for their needs.”