Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  “My skill is but a poor shadow of your own mastery, King Virulan,” Shurzul said modestly. “But I beg of you: please tell me how I may serve you.”

  There was a pause as King Virulan led Shurzul from the Lower Workroom and even deeper into the World Without Sun. In the Bright World the meat might build high towers and accord the highest point to the highest rank, but in the World Without Sun, the highest rank had the lowest depth: deep within the rock, far away from Life. When he reached one of the long galleries that led to the Throne Chamber and its gardens, Virulan paused.

  “Tell me, my delicate, firebrand darling,” he said. “How goes the destruction of all Life?”

  “My lord King must know far better than I,” Shurzul parried, allowing her tail to curve seductively about Virulan’s ankle.

  “And yet your answer would be of interest to me,” Virulan responded neatly, spreading his wings to mantle her shoulders as well as his own.

  “Then I would say it is glory beyond imagining to act in accordance with the will of He Who Is,” Shurzul responded. “To take to the sky when we choose, to hunt where and how we choose—by the King’s command, of course—and to fill the slave-pens with the brief beauty of living treasure.”

  “And now the slave-pens overflow,” Virulan said. “And you, clever huntress, tarry here among those treasures.”

  Though not phrased as a question, the statement demanded an answer.

  “But of course,” Shurzul said, her brow wrinkling in pretty confusion below its curled golden horns. “After so many centuries of discipline, of hiding, of keeping the Bright World filth from believing we were anything more than a myth, is it not good to savor the pleasure of their extinction? It was you, King Virulan, who showed us the way: Do not your glorious creations sweep across the land from the Uttermost East, driving before them any they do not devour? Have you not created splendid monsters to course the surface, to fly above it, to burrow beneath it, and to swim in its waters? Should not we, your people, exert ourselves to mirror your great art, though we may never equal it?” She beamed upon him, her jeweled ivory fangs brilliant even in this utter absence of light, her entire expression that of delight and expected praise.

  But why are you taking so long? If he were not both Endarkened and King of the Endarkened, Virulan would have expressed that thought in a wail of frustration. Shurzul had said nothing to which he could take exception, yet her words only increased his disquiet.

  “We all long for the day our task is done,” he said briefly.

  “Who would not wish to be once more enfolded in the glorious, sterile, mindless embrace of He Who Is?” Shurzul answered. “To become once more one with the essence that sent us forth, knowing we have acted as an extension of His Glorious Will? When that day comes, He Who Is will have no cause to feel we have exerted less than the last uttermost erg of our being to do Him honor.” Her eyes closed in rapture and she drew a deep shuddering breath. “And you most of all, lord King. All that we do is done by your will and at your word. The greatest credit, the greatest magnificence, splendor, and fame—these are yours most of all.”

  Virulan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, for no Endarkened praised another—even as subject to King—without having some clandestine purpose in mind. Yet, try as he might, he could determine no falsehood or treason in Shurzul’s words. She spoke not only with propriety, but words of uttermost truth.

  “It is precisely as you say,” he said, ignoring his own unease. “Well done, thirdmost among the Endarkened.”

  Shurzul’s eyes widened as if she was astonished by such praise. “My lord King, such praise is a heavy weight to bear, and I will endeavor to be worthy of it. And yet, in this moment of your pleasure, may I beg of you a boon?”

  “Speak, Shurzul,” he said. And when she did not continue: “Your King listens.”

  “King Virulan,” Shurzul said, nestling beneath his wings and caressing his thigh with her tail, “I can only wish—should it please you—that you will lead us often upon the hunt, so that we may see—in the sky, in the slaughter, and in the disposition of the captives—the standard to which we, your people, can only aspire.”

  Virulan considered her statement warily, but—no matter from what angle he regarded it—he could see no trap. He had held back from taking part in the Red Harvest, though it pained him deeply, as a way of keeping control over his subjects. He let it be known that he denied himself this pleasure so there would be more for them, slaking his lusts merely upon the first fruits of the slave pens.

  Perhaps it was time for a change.

  “It shall be done,” he announced. “We shall give them a moonturn to grow incautious and to hope, and then I will lead you against them once more.”

  “Well do I remember the glorious days of the Winnowings,” Shurzul breathed throatily, gazing into the King’s blazing yellow eyes. “Well do I remember the beauty of your slaughters, the mastery of your kills. To once again be witness to such … my heart sings as if I bathed in the tears of a thousand Bright World children.”

  “I have no doubt of your ability to elicit such tears,” Virulan said. “And even in my passion, I would not keep you from your art.”

  “The child will be only the readier for more uncertainty,” Shurzul said. “If there is some way by which I may serve my King…?”

  “You need not ask,” he growled hungrily, pulling her body against his own.

  * * *

  “I had wondered why you chose to absent yourself from the hunt,” Virulan said to Uralesse a handful of Risings later, as Virulan and his most favored courtier walked once more in the Garden of Tears.

  “I am certain my reasons were much like your own,” Uralesse replied cagily. “Favored” did not mean “trusted.” Not among the Endarkened.

  Virulan responded with a smile that bared all of his not-inconsiderable teeth. “The power lies often not in claiming the sweets of victory, but denying oneself those very pleasures,” he said, neither agreeing nor rebuking. “And yet, I did wonder … if the lack of leadership caused the Red Harvest to proceed less swiftly than it might have.”

  “Your perspicacity astounds me,” Uralesse answered, carefully keeping the irony he held in his heart from reaching his voice. “We are, of course, perfect as He Who Is made us. But is it possible, do you think, that those whom we created in our turn, and those they thereafter made, could be … less than perfect?”

  “Certainly not!” Virulan snapped instantly. “If they can make Brightworlders into submissive slaves, how can it be that we shape them with any less skill? Yet … they do require guidance. This much I know. And so I shall lead the next hunt. And perhaps others to follow. I have not yet decided.”

  “My King! My brother!” Uralesse gasped, as if overcome by the thought. “Surely you could not risk yourself so! The vermin of the Bright World are but brief cattle—yet they have managed, through luck or treachery, to end Endarkened lives. And if their cousins should choose to come to their aid…”

  “You think I am not stronger than any of you? Faster and more clever? My powers are enough to withstand anything such puny mortals may do!” Virulan shouted.

  “I only—” Uralesse said, groveling.

  “I have made my decision and I will not be swayed from it!” Virulan said. “This will be not merely a Cleansing pleasing to He Who Is, but a work of art the like of which will never be seen again—and I shall be in the foremost of its creators!”

  “My lord King,” Uralesse whimpered. “I am your most loyal and devoted servant!” He flung himself to the ground, beating his forehead against the chill black stone, and crept forward until he could rain kisses upon Virulan’s feet. He did not even try to dodge the kick that sent him rolling away, and left him with a gashed and bloody mouth.

  “Then serve,” Virulan growled, “in silence. I forbid you to speak in my presence until I again give you leave. I had thought to command you to accompany me upon the hunt, for we have been friends and comrades since the moment o
f our creation, but now I see it would be a favor you did not deserve, faithless coward. Go! And do not allow me to gaze upon you again until I summon you!”

  In silence, Uralesse backed away, crawling on his belly, until one of the pillars of the Garden of Tears hid him from Virulan’s sight. Only then did he turn and begin to crawl forward—still on his belly—and only when he had left the Garden entirely did he dare to rise to his feet.

  But an observer—had there been one—would have noted that he did not seem particularly disheartened by this latest punishment from the creature who might choose upon a whim to kill him.

  In fact, Uralesse looked very content.

  It is just as I have long known. Virulan is steered by opposites. Had I praised his plan, he would have found some way to get out of it. Having expressed my horror and displeasure at his idea, I have only made him more obstinate and unwilling to reconsider. Let him lead our hunts against the Brightworlders. In fact, let him attack them and slay them while we others merely watch. One Endarkened can die as easily as another.

  Even if he is King.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RAIN MOON: A MONTH FOR WAR

  In those days, leading the Otherfolk to war was like going on a picnic—you took a blanket and as much food as you could carry and trusted to luck for the rest. When the Otherfolk attacked, they attacked like roving bands of brigands. Drunken brigands. Their tactics were those of small war bands and their notions of strategy were vague at best.

  They were also very effective.

  —Runacar Warlord, A History of the Western Shore Campaign

  When Runacar pledged himself to King Leutric he’d been certain the High King’s army would come again by the next War Season.

  It didn’t.

  Five Wheelturns, and everything east of The Sanctuary of the Star was emptied of Elvenkind. Four more, and Farcarinon, Ullilion, and everything to the banks of the Angarussa belonged to the Otherfolk. And each time Leutric asked when Runacar would give him the Shore, Runacar smiled and said: “Soon.”

  In the ninth Wheelturn of Runacar’s exile, Leutric asked him when he would give him the Shore. And Runacar smiled and said: “Now.”

  * * *

  The Goldengrass—what the Children of Stars called the Grand Windsward—had once been the home of Leutric’s people, and when Runacar had scoured the Western Reach clean of Elves, Leutric had moved his throne rooms from the Flower Forests to open ground where the sun could warm his old bones. It gave him the greatest of pleasure to make his place in the stronghold of his enemies and to take the sweets they had once commanded for his own. In the middle distance stood what had once been Cirandeiron Great Keep, now utterly empty but mostly intact. Nearly everything about it affronted his sensibilities, but it was too big to burn and too massive to topple, and stone didn’t rot overnight. It was just going to have to sit there, Grass and Star alone knew how long.

  He turned his thoughts to happier things. The orchards had gone from blossom to leaf over the past sennight, promising apples, cherries, and peaches in due time, and the spring day was bright and warm. The archivists and message bearers necessary to a court on eternal and unending pilgrimage moved fearlessly and contentedly over the open ground. There was no need to fear the alfaljodthi. Not here.

  Much had changed.

  The Centaurs were expanding the acreage under tillage and there was talk of building towns. The Dryads were working to expand the Flower Forests and the Bearwards were doing much the same for the less-magical forests. And after centuries of having to hide in their own rivers, the Selkies would soon be able to once more make their pilgrimages to the sea.

  None of that particularly called for any King-Emperor management. The only thing that really required Leutric’s attention at the moment was the plan for the new Minotaur city. The western slope of the Mystrals was only lightly forested and it had been agreed that it would be given to his people, as the Mystrals and Medharthas would be given to the Folk of the Air. Their ancestral lands—the Goldengrass and the soaring Icewild mountains—could not be reclaimed.

  We plan for the future as if we think there will be one, he thought gloomily.

  It had seemed so simple when he’d started. Another Red Winnowing was to come, and Leutric meant its scythe to fall upon the alfaljodthi, not the Folk. The Elves had cooperated by starting another of their endless wars and going across the Mystrals to fight it. Then Runacar had come, to bring with him the bitter and the sweet. The bitter was the omens that said this was not to be merely another Winnowing, but the Red Harvest, the end of days. The sweet was Runacar himself, with his understanding of how the Children of Stars made war, and his generosity in yoking that understanding to Otherfolk needs. And so Leutric dared to hope.

  Perhaps the prophecies are wrong. Perhaps this is only another Winnowing, and not the Harvest. Perhaps the Darkness will glut themselves on the Children of Stars and go back to sleep.

  He could hope for that, at least. And all the other news was good.

  “If everything is going as you desire, Leutric, why don’t you look happy?”

  The voice startled Leutric up from his seat with a roar of shock. “Melisha!” he shouted, loud enough to scare the birds out of the trees. The courtiers and judgment-seekers glanced around, saw the unicorn, and moved courteously away to give her space to approach Leutric.

  “Who else?” Melisha stepped daintily from behind a tree. Her back was covered with fallen apple blossoms, their whiteness seeming dark against her gleaming fur. “I’ve come to see if you’re ready to talk to me yet.”

  Leutric glanced around. Everyone was busy—or wished to look that way—and well out of earshot, save for the tumble of Fauns that had been playing some incomprehensible game all morning and now lay in a happy slumber amid the trees. He looked back at Melisha.

  “No,” he said simply.

  “You’re being very difficult,” Melisha answered, switching her tail.

  “I’m being practical,” he said. He wanted to get to his feet and pace, but that would make things difficult for Melisha. He sighed and stayed where he was. “You say that our only hope—by which you mean ‘the hope of everything living all the way down to butterflies and angleworms—’”

  “I’ve always considered butterflies to be more beautiful than angleworms, haven’t you?”

  “Don’t change the subject. ‘All the way down to butterflies and angleworms’ to survive this … Winnowing … is to make common cause with the Children of Stars and surrender the Bones of the Earth to them.”

  “Oh good. You do remember what we talked about.”

  “You’ve come to me every time the seasons change since before I became Emperor as well as King,” Leutric grumbled. “You will come to Audalo with it when he takes my place, I am certain. And it’s just as impossible now as it ever was.”

  “Why? You’ve already got one of the Children of Stars. He likes you. I admit, he isn’t best placed to persuade the others, but—”

  “And here I always thought unicorns were realists.”

  “And I thought Minotaurs were practical. Calling the Red Harvest a mere Winnowing does not change what it is. You want to live. They want to live. If giving the Children of Stars a way to fight back helps you both do that, then why not?”

  “Because if they did not use the Bones against us at first, they would use them against us at last,” Leutric said. “And even if they did the impossible and agreed to let us live among them, the best we could hope for would be the status of livestock, not equals. I’m not willing to let Elves decide they know how to run my life. Not even if that is the only way to have a life.”

  “And the others?” the Unicorn asked softly. “Have you asked them?”

  “Who shall I ask?” Leutric said. “The Gryphons, whose feathers have gone to ornament Elven cloaks? The Selkies, trapped and skinned so a highborn lady can stay warm at night? The Dryads, whose groves have been cut down for firewood? The Centaurs, herded into their own barn
s and burned alive? Or my own ancestors, killed for their ivory, or as trophies, or as food. There are so many of the Folk to take counsel of, I don’t think I can manage it before we’re all dead,” Leutric snarled.

  “Yet you let them plan for the future,” she said, nodding in the direction of the rest of the court.

  “It passes the time. And maybe I’m right and the Darkness will be satisfied with the Elves alone. Fitting, don’t you think, since it was a Winnowing that began our grief? Or do you think a second Pelashia will rise up among us and go as our ambassador to their High King? You know as well as I do that Pelashia failed.”

  “A thing I know far better than you,” Melisha said softly. “And yet I still say this: we must join together with my cousins in this battle, or there will be no one left to argue about whether the idea will work.”

  “It cannot be done,” Leutric said, his voice as low and as sad as hers had been. “I have thought about your madness—”

  “I thank you for that assessment of my counsel, old bull!”

  “—since the first time you came to me with it. I will not give up the Bones of the Earth unless I know the Elves will not turn their power against us. And how am I to make certain of that? Since the days of the White Mare and the Sword-Giver they have believed that anything not in their own shape must be their enemy. It is hard to argue otherwise when you have a swordblade through your throat.”

  “That much is true,” Melisha said. “And yet, a way must be found.”

  Leutric drew breath for a bellow of exasperation, looked around, and let it out in a gusty sigh. “Why?” he asked again. “If the Darkness will be satisfied with half, let that half be the Elves. If this time it means to have the whole, what can it matter whether we are together or apart?”

  “Because of the Bones of the Earth,” Melisha said, stepping as close to him as she could. “Only one of the Children of Stars can awaken them.”