At last she reached a clearing, a space opened up by the death of trees so ancient that the width of their fallen trunks towered above her head. Here, she thought. She must have shelter, a place to sleep. She would make them here. She could cause the forest earth to flow and re-form as a potter shaped clay. She formed the shape of her intention in her mind and raised a hand to begin.
And stopped.
She could feel Arevethmonion’s heartbeat, the Flower Forest’s soft breath. Unfair—wrong—to impose her will upon Lady Arevethmonion simply because she could. She waited, holding the shape of her intention, her need, bright upon the surface of her mind, reaching out with Lightborn senses for Arevethmonion’s response. Her years of training had taught her that the Light required patience: she was prepared to wait as long as she must before beginning. She closed her eyes.
Her mind wandered from this fancy to that, as it would when she spent too long in meditation. Vieliessar thought of the hare eluding the fox with speed and disguise, the vixen hiding from the hawk and the wolf in deep, warm burrows. She thought of mice and bears sleeping the winter away, of all the inhabitants of any forest who preserved their lives by guile and who survived the winter in safe shelter.
When she opened her eyes again, the clearing looked very different. She stepped away from the place she had meant to put her sleeping place. Not there. Here. She touched the trunk of the fallen tree. Time and animals had stripped away its bark; insects burrowed into its wood, seeking food, shelter, sanctuary. In a century or two it would be gone—rot and weather would have returned it to the forest, to feed its successors. Meanwhile it would give her not only heat and shelter but concealment.
When the earth had transformed beneath her Magecraft, there was a deep burrow beneath the trunk of one of the fallen trees, one that could barely be seen from outside. She had made a chimney within the tree itself—a small matter to visualize a channel through the dead heartwood, with its opening near the tree’s distant crown—and there was felltimber in plenty.
Almost she conjured a spring to appear where none had been, before she remembered to listen for Lady Arevethmonion’s voice. When she had, she walked a short distance to where a tiny stream flowed among the trees, its current brisk with winter snow. She drank her fill and returned to her burrow. She set a spellshield before the door before she kindled her fire, and soon smoke was drawing sweetly through her chimney.
She curled up against the back wall to think. Survival was her first need. The plan she must implement when she returned to the Sanctuary was the second.
The shelter she had built was vital to both, she realized. No matter his fine words, Hamphuliadiel meant her to die here. In a sennight, a fortnight, a moonturn he would send someone to Arevethmonion to find her body. It did not matter whether he sent friend or foe; he would undoubtedly look into the mind of whomever he sent to see what they had seen. Or—if he possessed more resources than she imagined—he would send a warrior who would slay her if she was found alive.
It might be nothing more than her panic and imagination which painted this future, but she must behave as if it were real. She had studied enough history of the Hundred Houses to know their tangled tales of alliance, betrayal, murder, and assassination. Even one of the Lightborn could be slain if someone wished it ardently enough. And anything that had happened once could happen again.
If anyone sought her, she must not be found.
* * *
Learning Lady Arevethmonion’s rhythms occupied her through Snow Moon and into Ice. The Flower Forests were timeless places, and it would be a simple matter to tarry here for a year, a decade, a century, without awareness of the passage of time. The eternal springtide of the Flower Forest gave her fruit, mushrooms, tender roots, even honey … a far more lavish table than in the Sanctuary’s Refectory. She wove blankets of grass, shaped sandals of felltimber, dug river clay to line her fire pit and conjured Fire to bake it hard.
She listened—always—to the voice of the Flower Forest.
It was as if she spent her days in a waking dream, her mind growing closer to the vast green mind of the Flower Forest—of all Flower Forests, for whether a league or a thousand leagues apart they were all one. Magery had taught her how fragile the world was, how only her own conscience could protect it—now Arevethmonion showed her she did not have to find that strength alone.
Listen, and I will tell you a story, a true story …
It was the phrase with which the talesingers and songsmiths began their performances, giving the promise of truth. Lady Arevethmonion made the same appeal, the same promise.
Listen.
Ice became Storm. Vieliessar stood in the shadow of one of the great trees, barely a step from the road to the Sanctuary, watching unseen as hounds and hunters sought her. Six were mounted, and of that number, two wore the armor of knights. Their cloaks and surcoats were featureless white—as were the saddlecloths and trappings of their mounts—just as if they were arming pages, unannointed by battle. But they were far too old for that, and her inward sight showed her that their armor, shields, and weapons all glowed with the deep blue fire of spellcraft.
With the knights rode four huntsmen armed with bows and spears, and beside them, afoot among the animals of the pack, walked the Master of Hounds and his apprentice. The hounds were as diverse as the hunters: tall swift hikuliasa, noble sight hounds as swift as an arrow’s flight; merry and tireless teckle hounds, able to track prey over stone and water candlemark after candlemark; fierce thick-muscled boarhounds able to course the most savage prey—even several of the earth-dogs legendary for their willingness to suffer any injury in pursuit of their chosen prey.
Knowing that she had been right in her most mistrustful fantasy did not make Vieliessar happy. It only showed her how much Hamphuliadiel—or someone—feared her.
But if she was feared, she was also loved. The Light ensured there was no scent for the teckles to follow, and the Light gave her the power to render herself unseen, but it was the skill she had learned from Lady Arevethmonion that allowed Vieliessar to follow the hunters on noiseless feet, leaving no track upon the forest floor.
They spent three days searching Arevethmonion for her, and did not even find the places she slept.
Thoughts of war, declared and secret, had occupied Vieliessar’s mind even before the arrival of the hunters. Her thoughts—and her dreams—were troubled, and she apologized often to Lady Arevethmonion, for her tangled emotions were mirrored in the slow mind of the Flower Forest, troubling its serenity. But she could not—dared not—leave the riddle unexamined.
Serenthon Farcarinon had declared war, fought, and died. Celelioniel had proclaimed Vieliessar Child of the Prophecy, and Vieliessar believed Celelioniel had pledged her to war with that naming before she had drawn ten breaths.
But against whom?
She reviewed all she’d ever learned of the Curse. Once—in the reign of Amrethion and Pelashia, millennia ago—the Fortunate Lands had been at peace. All Trueborn had done fealty to High King Amrethion and Great Queen Pelashia, and of that time little record remained, for what tales were there to tell of a happy, peaceful land? Then the queen had died, and the king had gone mad, and no one had been crowned High King after him, for his children and hers were all gone.
There were a thousand tales of how Pelashia had died, of Amrethion’s fate, of their children. It didn’t matter which one was true. From that day to this, the Hundred Houses had been at war with one another, each vying to make its prince High King, while Amrethion’s Song moldered in scholars’ libraries. Somewhere, sometime, the destined Child would be born, and that Child would destroy the Hundred Houses. (“You have come to end us,” whispered the voice of the Starry Huntsman in her memory.) The Child of the Prophecy would claim that which had been lost; innocuous enough, but the Prophecy also spoke of a Darkness which prepared itself for war in unknown lands.
Who?
She considered a hundred enemies and dismissed them all. �
�Darkness” couldn’t be the Beastlings, since the lands they infested were hardly unknown. “What was lost”—and waiting to be reclaimed—was obviously the Unicorn Throne and the High Kingship. And each of the War Princes had been trying to do exactly that since the fall of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor.
But who would bring the end of the Hundred Houses, and who would sit upon the Unicorn Throne? The same person? And how was the Child of the Prophecy to accomplish this? Even if she broke the Covenant, she could only turn the Fortunate Lands into a lifeless desert. If Vieliessar pledged herself to their destruction, the Hundred would defend themselves in every way they could. Even if she only struck down the Houses of the Great Alliance that had ended Farcarinon—Caerthalien, Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, Telthorelandor—the Lightborn would band together to destroy her.
Either the Prophecy is true in every detail or it is not true at all, Vieliessar thought in exasperation. Celelioniel had believed in the Prophecy and preserved Vieliessar’s life. Whether Hamphuliadiel believed in the Prophecy or thought it meaningless nonsense, he should not be trying to kill her.
It made no sense.
And Hamphuliadiel had put the explanations far beyond her reach.
INTERLUDE ONE
FEAR AND BETRAYAL
Under King Virulan’s rule, the World Without Sun … flourished.
Time had mantled Obsidian Mountain in a sheath of lifeless ice. In the frozen land over which it brooded, day and night were of equal length, each occupying half a Brightworld year. Here the Endarkened, their bodies obedient to King Virulan’s sorcery, produced offspring, and their numbers grew.
And with it, their curiosity.
That which lived could be shaped. The Endarkened could not truly share their magic—and had no wish to, in any event—but they could share much of their essential nature.
The first creatures of their making were the Lesser Endarkened.
They were less than half the height of the Endarkened, though few of them could stand fully erect. Wingless, tailless—or with short stubby tails—hooved instead of footed, their brows and spines barbed and ridged, their skin as black as the Shadow Throne, rough and scaled.
Nor were they nearly as clever as their tall and beautiful cousins.
The Endarkened delighted in these new creations. They were lazy and sly and treacherous, but they were incapable of posing a threat to their creators. The Lesser Endarkened performed that toil for which the Endarkened had little taste: enlarging the caverns and passages of the World Without Sun; tending the vast farms of strange pale fungus, the soft writhing worms and tunneling insects for whom the kiss of the sun was fatal, the lakes of glowing blind fish. The numbers of the Endarkened had increased to the point where the power of the Deep Earth alone was not enough to sustain them. Eating had become, not an occasional amusement, but a necessity.
As much of a necessity as pain.
The children of He Who Is were bound by the laws of time and matter, and even His vast power could not create—in that realm—a sorcery that did not require payment. Their power 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 others.
The Endarkened wouldn’t have it any other way.
The Endarkened never left witnesses to any of their hunts, nor any sign a hunt had occurred, by King Virulan’s decree. He did not intend his people’s prey to suspect the existence of their hunters until the day his preparations were complete, and his legions rose up out of the earth to begin their slaughter.
But his people must have slaves, and food, and entertainment, and so they ranged across the world.
Hunting.
To the ranks of their shambling, bestial courtiers, they added slaves from every realm in the Bright World: Centaurs, Minotaurs, Gryphons, Bearwards, Hippogriffs, Aesalions, Elves, and more. Each provided special delights to the Endarkened. It was their greatest delight to capture any of the Winged Ones, to drag them beneath the earth, to rip the wings from their bodies. The Winged Ones never lasted, but their suffering was beautiful to their enslavers.
Those creatures of deep forest were nearly as fragile. Bearwards pined for the cool green life that was taken from them. Fauns died quickly of grief. Pixies and fairies, trapped away from their fields of flowers, starved slowly, their bodies glowing beautifully in their death agonies.
Centaurs and Minotaurs lasted much longer, prized by the Endarkened as much for their strength as for the torture they could withstand.
But the greatest prize in any Endarkened slave hunt was the Elves.
The Elvenkind were hard to take without suspicion. The creatures called themselves alfaljodthi—Children of Stars—and their shape was a mockery of Endarkened beauty. Their skin was grub-pale. Their long pointed ears only made more obvious the lack of beautiful golden horns. Their mouths were filled with stubby pointed teeth, their toes and fingers were blunt and soft. They had neither wings nor tails.
But they were durable—as much as any Brightworlder was—and they suffered beautifully.
The first Elves the Endarkened took as slaves cried out to Aradhwain the Mare, and wept for their herds, and the vast openness of the Goldengrass. Time passed in the Bright World, and the new Elven captives lamented for their beautiful palaces among The Teeth of the Moon, and cried out to Manafaeren Law Lord to deliver them. Time passed, and they cried out to Amrethion and Pelashia, to the Sword-Giver and the Bride of Battles, to the Starry Hunt.
None of their Brightworld powers saved them.
And Virulan had been confident none of them ever would.
* * *
“What is your name, little Elfling?” Rugashag purred. The Royal Consort’s eyes glowed gold with anticipation; her scarlet skin was flushed brilliant with lust. All around her, King Virulan’s favored courtiers murmured in anticipation of the treat about to be presented.
The captive’s face was contorted with terror—for Rugashag had been careful to bring him to the Heart of Darkness by a way that made him fully aware of the horrors of his fate—but there was no other mark on him. Rugashag had found him in the western reaches of the Goldengrass, and followed him carefully for a long time to be certain he could be taken in secret. The Elfling had been so concerned with hiding from his race’s many enemies that he had not noticed one more hunter.
Fool, Virulan thought.
Rugashag had brought him directly to the Heart of Darkness, knowing King Virulan took special pleasure in watching new captives’ realization of their fate. He knew that she hoped by these shows of submission to lull him to the point she could destroy him. He cherished each spark of her futile rebellion, just as he had from the beginning. One day—if he grew bored enough—he would end it.
“What are you?” the Elfling whispered, his voice shaking with beautiful terror.
“We are death and pain and darkness. We are your masters,” Virulan said, smiling hideously. “Kneel.”
Virulan rose to his feet, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. He had grown used to the stink of soil and sun upon the flesh of new slaves over the centuries. But this was … different.
Irritating.
“No!” the Elfling shouted. He flung himself away from Rugashag, the tatters of his green robes swirling about his limbs. “I will never serve you! Never!”
Rugashag laughed mockingly, spreading her wings and baring her fangs.
The stink Virulan had sensed grew stronger. He took a step forward.
“The simplest spell…” the Elfling whispered. Tears glittered in his eyes.
And then his body erupted in flame.
The Endarkened sprang back in surprise, though mere flame had no power to harm them. The captive began to scream in agony, and the sweetness of the sound held Virulan transfixed for a fatal moment. By the time he doused the flame with a spell, the captive was dead.
“I swear to you, my king, I would never—” Rugashag babbled, throwing
herself to the floor in terror. No one else in the chamber dared to move so much as a wing.
“Magic,” Uralesse hissed. “The maggot-things have magic.”
“Yessss…” King Virulan said broodingly. “It is weak, compared to ours. But you did not know that when you brought me this Elven Mage, did you, my dear Rugashag?”
“I swear to you— My king— I swear—” she babbled, scrabbling backward, her mouth hanging open in horror.
“Indeed you do,” Virulan said. “Let us see what else you will swear—with the proper inducement.”
He gestured languidly, and two of the Lesser Endarkened came to bear his consort away.
His former consort.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE WAY OF THE SWORD
A commander is often faced with two bad choices and no good ones. One gains the victory by concealing that truth from the enemy.
—Arilcarion War-Maker,
Of the Sword Road
For days Vieliessar’s dreams had been troubled, filled with the clash of swords, the screams of the dying, images of a vast battlefield upon which thousands fought. When she drifted from sleep to waking, it took her long moments to realize that the sounds had followed her into wakefulness.
No battle should come here! she thought, scrambling through the narrow tunnel of her sleeping-place into the clearing. But that was custom, not law. Only the Sanctuary itself was sacrosanct. She kilted up the skirts of her green robe and ran toward the sound. She must see.
When she reached the edge of the Forest and looked out over the winter-bare fields of Rosemoss Farm, she saw that the fields were as yet unplowed and the snow that lay on them was patchy and thin. Empty. The sky was clouded, the air was heavy and wet, and she could smell woodsmoke. Somewhere a dog barked.
There is no battle, she told herself in exasperation. I have mistaken dreams for Farseeing, nothing more.
She was about to turn back into the trees when she saw a bright flash in the distance: pale sunlight on armor. She heard shouting and the mellow, demanding call of warhorns. A moment later she felt the faint trembling of the ground as it resounded to the beat of hooves. Destriers. Many of them.
Crown of Vengeance dpt-1 Page 15
