It was a place less stark than her Postulant chamber had been. Her clothing belonged to her now, rather than being from a common store, and she possessed a fine carved chest that held winter and summer robes and underrobes. A shelf hung upon her wall, deep enough to hold scrolls borrowed from the library plus cherrybark canisters of her special tea blendings and a flat book where she recorded her experiments and recipes. Beneath it was a table at which she might sit to read or write, and a cushion on which to kneel. Though her bed was no softer than her Candidate’s bed had been, its frame was carved and polished and her blankets were of new wool.
She did not set the walls alight as she entered, but went to the window and folded back the shutters. Fire Moon was waning. Soon it would be Harvest—and what of Haldil then?
She was certain ’Chele knew as well as any here that Celelioniel had named her—and not Malbeth of Haldil—Child of the Prophecy. But to the Sanctuary servants, the title was empty words, a riddle meant only for scholars.
Or, as Haldil clearly had decided … a pretext.
There were a Hundred Houses divided into Great and Less, but any child of a great court knew there were more divisions than two. There were the Great Houses whose position was unquestioned—Caerthalien, Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron—which had held their places since Amrethion High King ruled. There were Less Houses which would never aspire to greater rank—Hallorad, Penenjil, Kerethant. And there were Less Houses which swore themselves High—but when one spoke of the “Four Score,” one spoke of the Less Houses of whose status there was no dispute. Those were the Houses held in clientage by this High House or that. In exchange for its protection, a High House demanded a yearly tithe, the right to call upon its client’s levy knights in time of war …
… and the renunciation of the Less House War Prince’s claim to the Unicorn Throne.
But Haldil did not look so high as to make itself High King’s House. Haldil was a House of the Grand Windsward; in claiming Malbeth as the fulfillment of Amrethion’s Prophecy, War Prince Gonceivis had declared “The time of High House and Low” was ended.
Which meant Haldil—and those who followed Haldil—renounced their clientage to their overlords in the West.
The tale had been played out a thousand thousand times in the histories she had read. The Hundred Houses fought among themselves. They would fight until the end of the world over who was to be High King. They had fought for thousands of years.
Haldith knows it does not hold the Child of the Prophecy. Enerchelimier has only to ask Celelioniel Lightsister to bear witness to that—should Enerchelimier wish to avow itself loyal. That she named me is—I think—no secret.
Haldil’s gambit was a clever pretext, nothing more.
And the Twelve will fling themselves upon the pretext like a hawk upon a lure, and never ask the question they should ask.
Why do the Four Score rebel against their accustomed masters? Why now?
Such speculation was only another game for her—like xaique, like gan, like narshir. She was Lightborn, of no House. The strivings of the Hundred could not affect her.
So she thought.
* * *
“Beru, I cannot find the Jade Mirror scroll,” Vieliessar complained.
Beruthiel Lightsister, Arevethmonion’s Mistress, laughed quietly. She had succeeded Cirthoriach Lightsister as mistress of Arevethmonion in the usual way: beginning in her Postulant days with a taste for scholarship and a fascination with the Great Library’s mysteries, she had returned many times through the centuries to assist the then-mistress of Arevethmonion in her tasks, before gaining a boon of her War Prince that permitted her a longer stay. The Astromancer served from fruiting to fruiting: the Mistress—or Master—of Scrolls served until age or disinterest made them lay aside their duty.
“How sad it is to see one once so promising in scholarship set that promise aside!” Beruthiel teased. “The Jade Mirror has been archived. No one thought it of any significance, and there is little enough space for scrolls as it is.”
“But … I cannot find The Book of Days, either. And I was certain there was more than one copy. Or The Fire Alphabet. Or The Book of Veils. And I was looking at them, well … not so long ago.”
“What do you wish to know?” Beruthiel asked, her smile fading. “I have but little skill in walking the Veiled Path—but if something troubles you, there is no reason you should not go to the Shrine and bespeak the Silver Hooves yourself, you know.”
“It isn’t the future I wish to see, but the past,” Vieliessar said. “I suppose I must go into the storage archives, then.”
“It is … you must seek the Astromancer’s permission,” Beruthiel said, sounding embarrassed. “Those books are in the Locked Cases, and … I know you are no Postulant, but the Astromancer has given orders that all the books of spells and prophecy are not to be released except upon his word.”
A word Vieliessar knew she was not likely to receive, now or ever.
“It was a few moonturns after you took the Green Robe, I think,” Beruthiel added.
“So long as that?” Vieliessar forced herself to smile, as if her heart was untroubled. “It was but a fancy, Beru. Do not distress yourself.”
The news of Haldil’s rebellion had sparked her curiosity—for The Song of Amrethion Aradruiniel seemed an odd and esoteric pretext for rebellion. She would have set the notion aside, save for a chance remark Rondithiel Lightbrother had made.
Hamphuliadiel Astromancer’s house was Haldil.
There was no proscription against knowing the Houses of the Lightborn. In fact it was often a matter of vital importance, for the swiftest messages went forth by spellbird or Farspeaking, and such communication lay solely within the hands of the Lightborn, who would render no aid to a House not their own. If Gonceivis Haldil had taken his cause for war from some meddling of Hamphuliadiel, perhaps the reasons lay within the scrolls that spoke of the Prophecy.
But what she found was more troubling to her than any news of distant rebellion, or thinking the Astromancer of the Sanctuary of the Star chose to make the Hundred into counters on a xaique board.
There was no longer a full copy of The Song of Amrethion anywhere on the shelves—the last scroll in every available copy, the scroll containing the Prophecy-or-Curse, had been altered so it no longer contained it. The commentaries on the Song were either missing entirely, or the vellum had been cut and re-glued so the chapters analyzing the Song were gone. And as she’d just discovered, it was not just the Song. The Jade Mirror was an important text, how could Beruthiel, could anyone, say it was of no importance? The Book of Days, The Book of Veils, The Fire Alphabet … every book recording prophecies was either missing entirely or locked away as if it contained dangerous spellcraft.
All those texts should be here, so the Postulants could learn from them.
Those lacunae led her to investigate the Histories, but there were disturbing gaps there too. The scrolls detailing the lives of the Astromancers were gone. She could find their names, from Mosirinde Peacemaker down to Hamphuliadiel—but no texts of their lives more recent than Timirmar Astromancer’s, and there had been thirty Astromancers since Timirmar’s reign. Where were the lists of decisions made, of Postulants who became Lightborn in each reign, the lists of spells cast, Healings performed, Foretellings and interpretations made?
A library of magic without magic is a poor library indeed, Vieliessar thought sourly. If I make known those things Hamphuliadiel has done, I will have no allies to help me make all as it was. Nor will his fears of me be allayed. Yet he fears me already …
And Hamphuliadiel had always found fault with her even when both law and custom were on her side.
He has often mocked Celelioniel’s obsession with Amrethion’s Prophecy. But I think he must believe in it, or why would he take such pains to render it impossible to prove? It cannot merely be for Haldil’s benefit. No War Prince truly seeks his causes in ancient lore. He has done this to us—to the Lightborn.
Celelioniel had named Vieliessar Child of the Prophecy, the one whose birth would—so Amrethion had written—herald the coming of the Darkness and bring an end to the Hundred Houses. Celelioniel had chosen Hamphuliadiel to carry on her work. It was why she had supported his bid to become Astromancer. But once he had, Hamphuliadiel had betrayed her. Clearly he meant to dismiss all thought in anyone’s mind that the Prophecy might be true. He’d already removed every scroll that would help the Lightborn decide for themselves.
If the question arose.
When it arose.
Foretelling was not Vieliessar’s spell to call. She did not know what the future held, and in truth, she had never wanted to, for what she had learned in her vigil within the Shrine had frightened her more than she had ever wished to admit. Now she wished she had tried harder to master it. At least then she would know when the Darkness her birth had foretold would come.
Perhaps it is I who am the Darkness. Why else would Hamphuliadiel hate me so?
* * *
Those words came back to Vieliessar many times the following winter. It was the hardest winter she had ever spent.
She spent it outside the Sanctuary.
They had learned of the Windsward Rebellion in Fire, and it had taken her through Rade to discover what Hamphiliadiel had done to the Great Library. Through all that winter she had stayed quiet and meek, but then Flower came, and a new year of Postulants were chosen.
There were only six Lightborn residents at the Sanctuary these days, a fraction of the number there’d once been, and Hervilafimir’s and Beruthiel’s duties occupied so much of their time that they could not be spared to shepherd new Postulants into the knowledge of the Light. Vieliessar’s practice of spellcraft had never been either elegant or conventional enough to satisfy her fellow Lightborn—Rondithiel thought it must be because of all the time she had practiced in secret; Pamaneith Lightbrother thought it was because she had come to the Light so late. But even if no one wished her to teach the Light itself, Vieliessar knew as much about its theory and history as any here.
And more than some.
She began innocently enough. But moonturn followed moonturn, and she turned from teaching the Candidates what they could still find upon the shelves of Arevethmonion to teaching them of those scrolls which now existed nowhere but in her memories. She could not bear for these Postulants to go forth into the world crippled and half educated.
She hadn’t thought what she did would be discovered at all; Hamphuliadiel paid little attention to the Postulants and no one else would think what she was teaching was at all unusual. But one morning, a sennight after she’d begun, she’d barely settled herself in her seat in the Refectory, thinking of little more than the Postulants she would see today, when Momioniarch Lightsister came to stand behind her chair.
“Hamphuliadiel Astromancer summons you to attend him at the Shrine, Lightsister,” she said.
Puzzled, Vieliessar nodded. “I come,” she answered. She got to her feet and waved away the young Candidate who was serving breakfast.
When she reached the antechamber of the Shrine, Hamphuliadiel stood in its center. Everyone was at the morning meal, even the servants; there was no one to see. Behind him, as if he were a great prince and they his komentai’a, stood Galathornthadan and Sunalanthaid. Two more from Haldil, she noted automatically, for of the four Lightborn who seemed to attend upon Hamphuliadiel as if it were their only task, only Orchalianiel was not from Haldil—and Orchalianiel was from Bethros, to which Hamphuliadiel also had ties.
“Lord Astromancer,” Vieliessar said, still confused. She shivered. The outer doors of the vestibule were open, as they were each day, and the air here was cold.
“I have done all I could to save you, Vieliessar, for it is in my mind that to lose one of the Lightborn for any cause would be a terrible loss. My patience is infinite, but my wisdom is not. All I can do is present you for judgment to an authority greater than my own.”
“Who judges me?” Vieliessar demanded. “For what crime? I have not trans—” I have not transgressed against the Covenant.
“I will not debate with you,” Hamphuliadiel said sharply, raising his hand.
Suddenly Vieliessar felt the touch of a spell settle over her skin—and with that touch she was once more a child standing before Ladyholder Glorthiachiel in Caerthalien’s Great Hall. This spell stopped her words, but not her volition. She took a step toward Hamphuliadiel, barely forcing herself to stop before she struck him.
“Your spirit is too cunning,” Hamphuliadiel continued, as if she had fallen silent of her own accord. “It leads you into folly. And so I say this—as Arevethmonion has revealed your corruption, let Arevethmonion judge if you are worthy to dwell among us. I lay upon you this charge: go from the Sanctuary of the Star to dwell in Arevethmonion. If she will shelter you, return to us in Rain, healed and welcome.”
Her horror and rage were enough to sweep away the spell of Silence as if it were never cast. “Rain is four moonturns from now,” she said hoarsely. Who had told Hamphuliadiel—what had they told him? Why was it so important to him to banish the study of prophecy from the Sanctuary of the Star?
“I will fetch my cloak and boots and go,” she said quickly, before he could bespell her to silence again. Once she was out of his sight, she could Cloak herself and reach the Servants’ Hall by the secret passageways. She could leave a message for Rondithiel or Pamaneith—Maeredhiel would see it was delivered …
“You will go as you are,” Hamphuliadiel answered.
Momioniarch Lightsister stepped into the vestibule and opened the inner door. The freezing wind of Snow Moon swept into the antechamber: Winter High Queen with her komentai of snow and sleet and ice. Suddenly the floor seemed colder and Vieliessar’s Green Robe thinner than they had moments before.
She’d miscalculated badly. Underestimated her opponent, underestimated the need for caution. And now there was nothing she could do but obey the “judgment” that was in truth a coward’s method of execution. Stay and kill him—she could—and she did not know what would happen next, only that she would have shattered the holiest custom of the Sanctuary.
Maeredhiel will see I am gone. No matter what tale Hamphuliadiel tells, she will see through it. I pray the Silver Hooves she does. Of all who were present on the night of my birth, she is the only one I dare trust.
“I will see you in Rain Moon, Lord Astromancer,” Vieliessar answered, her voice hard.
She turned her back and strode from the Sanctuary.
* * *
It had been cold inside the Sanctuary. Outside, it was freezing. The trees and hedges of Rosemoss Farm were bare and leafless in winter’s cold. Her breath was a white cloud, and her skin burned. Before she’d gone a dozen steps toward the outer gateposts, her leather-soled socks were wet through, for it had snowed last night and no one had yet swept the path this morning. Still, she did not stop or hesitate, for she was certain Hamphuliadiel or one of his lackeys watched to see what she would do.
As she passed through the outer gates of the Sanctuary of the Star, she could not keep from shuddering. Outside the Sanctuary. Outside its bounds. Prey for any hunter willing to defy ancient custom.
A Lightsister is no man’s prey. The Covenant did not say she could not defend herself—merely that she could not use the Light for the benefit of her House—or any other—in war. And I am Vieliessar of Lost Farcarinon—I have no House!
One step. Another. She called up her shields. They formed a barrier against the implacable wind, just as they would deflect arrow or swordblade, but they gave no heat. Arevethmonion was green, lush with eternal springtide … and more than half a mile away.
By the time she gained its shelter, her body ached with cold, though as she stepped beneath the trees, her skin tingled with the power all around her. It was not magic. Not precisely. It was that stuff of which Magery was woven, as thread was turned to cloth upon a loom. Light within called to Light wi
thout, and so the Flower Forests heeded the call of the Lightborn, feeding their spells, making them possible. She stepped from the road into the shelter of the trees. Only then, concealed from any who might watch, did she permit herself to slow, to stop, to hug herself against the cold and the fear. It was warmer here in the Flower Forest … but not as warm as it was in the Sanctuary.
Witless girl! You have sent Postulants to Arevethmonion year upon year to gather the ingredients for cordials, for incense, to gain vision and prophecy! You taught them that the Flower Forest holds food, shelter, and medicine, just as Hervilafimir taught you. Well, now you may see this storehouse and citadel and larder for yourself.
Warmth and shelter were her first needs. To Call an object from wherever it was to one’s hand was a simple skill, providing that one knew precisely what one wished to call and where it lay. But when she tried to Call one of the heavy winter cloaks from its hanging-peg beside the garden door, then her wooden sandals from her sleeping cell, she could summon neither.
The Wards around the Sanctuary were strong—but they had always been set to keep the untutored spells of the Postulants from getting out, not to keep one of the Lightborn from reaching in. Undoubtedly Hamphuliadiel had changed that. To break them was not beyond the power she might call if she wished—but to shatter the Wards might be to shatter the walls as well. And it would be an act of violence against the one place in all the Fortunate Lands where violence was forbidden. She would find another way.
She walked for candlemarks, moving deeper into the heart of the forest, warming herself with movement. Arevethmonion was hushed and watchful around her—she had gone deeper into the Flower Forest than anyone had in her knowledge or memory. Craftworkers might enter a Flower Forest to bring away felltimber, hunters might pursue game beneath its branches, but only Lightborn had ventured into Arevethmonion since the Sanctuary of the Star had been founded, and they stayed mostly at the forest’s edge.
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