“My lord,” Virry said, with another sharp bow, then turned and walked from the pavilion. Vieliessar heard Thoromarth snort in amusement at the breach of protocol any War Prince would have slain her for.
“They’d better be satisfied with a look. You can’t take them with you,” Rithdeliel said, waving a hand as if dismissing the entire problem.
“Can I not?” Vieliessar answered mildly.
Rithdeliel frowned. “You’d never be able to feed them. Send them to Caerthalien. Or Aramenthiali, if you prefer. Let them go forth and carry word of the High King’s greatness.”
“Stop it,” Vieliessar said, without heat.
“I’m serious,” Rithdeliel said, though he didn’t look serious. He was smiling, as if this were a great joke. “Don’t you know this is planting season?”
“I’m surprised you do,” she answered. She gave up on the map and sat down, certain she wouldn’t be left to study it in peace until Rithdeliel had said what he wanted to.
“Of course I know,” he said reprovingly. “When you’ve planned as many campaigns as I have based on whose lands I had to avoid lest I disturb their fields and had them run shrieking to my lord about how I was attempting to destroy them, you’d know too. If your army of commons can convince their fellows to flock to your standard, there won’t be anyone left to get the crop into the ground.”
“It could work,” Gunedwaen said.
Yes, she thought, looking around the pavilion. It could work. It would not merely strip my conquered domains of the laborers who allow the princes to make war, but all the lands.
“They’ll be killed,” Vieliessar said. “Bolecthindial and Manderechiel will send their meisnes to turn them back, and kill them if they do not.”
“If they kill them, the planting still won’t get done,” Rithdeliel said unsympathetically. “And this winter, there will be starvation. More than usual, that is.”
“Because the lords won’t open their granaries, or suspend the teinds and tithes,” Vieliessar said in disgust. Her own storehouses—those of Laeldor, Araphant, Ivrithir, and Oronviel—could feed her army for a handful of years. Or feed all the folk of those lands through one winter. Perhaps. If my war continues more than a full wheel of the seasons, I have lost, she reminded herself. She had already sent forth knights-herald to summon Laeldor’s absent lords to the keep, sending each messenger with a grand-taille of warriors in case her new vassals thought to rebel. To muster all of Laeldor’s knight levies would require a moonturn or more, and she did not have the time; she would take fealty of her new lords and hope for the best. She knew everyone was waiting to hear whom she would leave in charge of Laeldor Great Keep; she must make time to speak with her senior commanders to tell them what she intended.
When Vieliessar is High King there will be a Code of Peace. One justice for all, be they highborn or low, and all voices heard.
When Vieliessar is High King, domain will not war with domain, for all domains will be one.
When Vieliessar is High King, lords will not steal from vassals, from craftworkers, from Landbonds—
When Vieliessar is High King …
She would send the commons throughout the west to preach rebellion. She did not like it. But it would work.
“I shall ask this of them,” she said reluctantly. “But now it is time to share with you another thing that is in my mind.”
Quickly she explained. To conquer a domain did not strengthen the force she could bring to the field, for to hold what she had taken, she must leave a garrison force and a castellan. Should an enemy attack lands she held, she must retreat to defend them, or lose not only land, but reputation.
“Lord Rithdeliel has already said I should send the commons across the West to spread the word that I shall welcome them all to my banner, and his word is a good one. Now I say I shall do more: I shall strip my domains of every living thing. Let there be nothing for the War Princes to seize upon but empty keeps and deserted farms. Atholfol Ivrithir, I charge you to support me in this, and strip Ivrithir as I shall strip Oronviel.”
The meeting exploded into loud argument, as all those in the room began talking at once, arguing vehemently against Vieliessar’s plan.
“And put them all where?” Thoromarth demanded, winning out over the others through sheer insistence on being heard. “You’re talking about four domains—five, if you take Mangiralas!”
“I have been paying attention,” Vieliessar said dryly. “I shall send them east.”
“East!” Rithdeliel burst out. “You don’t hold any lands east of Oronviel!”
“But I shall,” Vieliessar said. “And I tell you now: I shall strip each domain I take of all it holds and weld my folk into one great army. Every domain I can take and strip before the Mystral passes close for winter weakens the Twelve.”
“Winter’s going to come no matter what Lord Vieliessar has conquered,” Dirwan said logically. “And I’d hate to try to get a flock of sheep over the Mystrals in winter, true enough.”
“And eleven of the Twelve are west of the Mystrals,” Gunedwaen said, a feral smile on his face as he began to understand the whole of what she intended.
“The Uradabhur is rich, wealthy, and fertile,” Diorthiel said. He now commanded all the Araphant meisne. “If you are there and the Twelve are not, I believe much of the region will quickly fall to you.”
“It is madness,” Prince Culence of Laeldor said. “But Laeldor follows your command, Lord Vieliessar, and gladly.”
Vieliessar inclined her head, acknowledging his loyalty. “Many Landbond and Farmfolk crossed the Mystrals to reach Oronviel. If my army were closer, I think even more of them would join me.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Rithdeliel said flatly, “but … it could work. If you’re on their doorstep with an army and their commons are running off to join it—well, the lords don’t have to know the commons are useless in a fight.”
“They’ll remember the Windsward Rebellion,” Nadalforo said. “The Twelve stripped the Uradabhur bare as their armies passed through. They won’t want to face that again.”
Gunedwaen, Rithdeliel, Thoromarth, and even Dirwan were staring at her in disbelief, but Nadalforo was nodding.
“You will make of yourself a landless joke!” Thoromarth burst out.
“How so, when all this land is mine?” Vieliessar answered. “I do not care who shall ride over it for a handful of moonturns making a brave noise of dominion. It is mine, and it will be mine.”
“It’s going to be a cold winter,” Gunedwaen muttered. “With no domain to return to.”
“You and I, Gunedwaen, have both spent colder winters than we’ll spend in warm tents with stoves to heat them. Did you think I meant to go back to some Great Keep and sit by the fire when Harvest Moon or Rade Moon came? I cannot. I fight until I win,” Vieliessar answered. It was time she let them know this part of her plan, for if she waited until Harvest to tell them they were not to retreat somewhere to rest through the cold moons, they would be angry, feeling tricked. But everyone here was still so disturbed about the idea of carrying all the folk of her conquered lands with them that this new and outrageous statement passed almost unnoticed.
“Followed by an ever-growing army of Landbond who will be missing their pigs and their mud,” Thoromarth grumbled. “And which can hardly defend itself if attacked.”
“The War Princes will not attack an army of commons,” Vieliessar said. “They will take my abandoned domains—and thereby lose a portion of their armies guarding them against one another—and will think only of reclaiming the servants and workers needed to make the land fruitful. Let it be done. And let word be carried across all land I now hold and all I shall take—a domain, a kingdom, is not earth and stone, but people.”
* * *
Despite the thousand calls upon her time, Vieliessar visited Luthilion Araphant’s pavilion, where Celeharth Lightbrother lay dying in the War Prince’s own bed. That he was dying was something no one could doubt. H
e had not awakened from the swoon he had fallen into in the Great Hall. Lightborn of Laeldor and Oronviel came and went, as did the lords of Araphant, seeming stunned by the death—and the dying—of the two who had been Araphant since the time of their greatfathers. Vieliessar sat at Celeharth’s bedside for as long as she could manage, but could never decide what she felt. Was it good fortune that Celeharth would not long outlive his friend and his lord? Was it bad fortune because his death could be twisted into a dagger for her back? Or was it merely unlucky that she should lose the good counsel of a Lightborn who had lived long and seen much? It was almost a relief when, as she returned to Luthilion’s pavilion just at dusk, she was met in the doorway by Komen Diorthiel, who told her Celeharth Lightbrother was gone. She could see that a body yet remained in the chamber, with a Lightborn beside it, but it seemed to her that body was made tiny by death, as if the greater part of Celeharth had been summoned away.
“I would see him honored in death as highly as the prince he served,” she said, and something in Diorthiel’s face eased at the words.
“It shall be done, Lord Vieliessar,” he answered. “To Celeharth Lightbrother, all honor.”
* * *
That evening, Vieliessar once again dined in Laeldor’s Great Hall among her commanders, and her thoughts were unsettled, for no Lightborn had come to the feast, even Aradreleg. But she was on display, and she knew it, and so forced herself to behave as if this were any ordinary meal. It was not, for there was a constant churning of bodies moving in and out at the back of the Great Hall. She had sent a message to Virry, saying that the commons might come to the Great Hall in the evening, providing they made no disturbance. She suspected Virry of arranging the matter so that each was only permitted a short time within the Hall, but for the Landbond to see their prince’s Great Keep was a liberty of which few of them had ever dreamed.
Tomorrow the first third of her army would depart for Mangiralas. Whether Lightborn rode with them or not.
The first course of the meal had just been served to the High Table and servants were still moving through the hall when she realized someone was approaching her from behind.
“I am here, Lord Vieliessar.” Aradreleg spoke softly from behind the chair. “I am sorry for my lateness. It was not possible to enter through the main gates.”
“Will you sit?” Vieliessar said. “I shall have a chair brought.” Aradreleg’s words might be simple truth, or they might be a convenient lie. There was no way to tell. The noise of so many minds would be deafening if Vieliessar tried to listen for one mind alone. But she thought Aradreleg seemed surprised to be asked.
“If it pleases you, then I will sit,” she answered.
I shall be sad to lose your friendship if you withdraw it, Vieliessar thought as Aradreleg settled herself beside her. There were few to whom she could speak her mind and she valued Aradreleg’s bravery and wry humor. In her first days as War Prince of Oronviel, Aradreleg’s acceptance of her rule had given Vieliessar hope that she could find consent among the people of the Fortunate Lands to the things she must do.
“We send Celeharth to the Vale of Celenthodiel tonight,” Aradreleg said, leaning over to speak softly in Vieliessar’s ear. “Will you come?”
The Lightless went forth on their last journey by dawn’s light, for they had no Light within them to show them their road. But the Lightborn walked the road to Celenthodiel by night, so that the Light of its flowers and leaves would show them the path.
“I will be honored,” Vieliessar answered.
By the time the last course had been set out, there was no table that did not have two or three Lightborn present.
* * *
The pyre had been built down at the bottom of the orchard, upon the ashes of Lord Luthilion’s. Vieliessar walked there with Aradreleg and the rest of the Lightborn who had been in the banquet hall. Other Lightborn were already there, in a ragged circle around the pyre. Vieliessar took her place among them. The blue gown she had worn to the banquet shone in the moonlight while the green of the Lightborn’s robes blended with the darkness. None of those present paid any more attention to her than if she wore Lightborn Green as well.
Celeharth’s body lay upon a green silk cloth spread over a pyre of aromatic woods and fragrant resins. A funeral pyre might be made of anything that would burn, but great lords surrounded themselves in death, as in life, with rare perfumes and costly essences, and she had given the order for Celeharth’s going-forth to be conducted with all honor. His name would survive nowhere but in the rolls at the Sanctuary of the Star, for he had left behind him—so he had told her once—no Line to remember him. But in the moment of his death, he would be splendid, for the night air brought the scent of applewood and spicebark, the deep sweet notes of amber and the sharp green odor of pine resin.
They stood quietly in the darkness until the last Lightborn arrived. Araphant and Ivrithir, Oronviel and Laeldor, all were present.
“We come to celebrate the leave-taking of one of Pelashia’s children.” Pharadas Lightsister was the most senior of Araphant’s surviving Lightborn. “Celeharth of Araphant, you have served long in the Cold World. Go now to the Warm World, where it is always summer, and go with joy.”
Vieliessar knew to close her eyes against what came, and—greatly daring—added her own power to it. A flash brighter than the noonday sun, a wash of furnace heat.…
Then nothing remained behind but night’s blackness and a small drifting of fine white ash. In that instant of intense spell-kindled fire, the pyre and the body upon it had been consumed utterly. The going-forth of one of the Lightborn was swift.
“You said you needed an answer before the day ended,” Isilla said, walking over to Vieliessar. “The day is not yet run.”
“Nor will I presume I have my answer until you give it,” Vieliessar answered.
“Just as you like,” Isilla said easily. “Who will you wish to send to Mangiralas? Ambrant? He has skill.”
“It is my place to say to the War Prince who has skill as an envoy, not yours,” Aradreleg said sharply. “But she is right,” she added reluctantly. Aradreleg glanced at Isilla, and an unspoken message owing nothing to the Light passed between the two women.
“It is in my mind to let Ambrant rest a while yet,” Vieliessar said, “for his adventure here in Laeldor was … taxing.”
“Then if you will not send Ambrant Lightbrother, Lord Vieliessar, I would say to you Isilla Lightsister is no bad choice,” Aradreleg said. “She is clever enough—if overbold in her speech and manner.”
“Says the gentle craftworker’s daughter,” Isilla jeered.
“Have you yet washed the mud out of your hair, Landbond brat?” Aradreleg instantly responded. A moment later she looked toward Vieliessar with wide, horrified eyes, and Vieliessar knew that for an instant Aradreleg had forgotten who—what—she was.
Vieliessar laughed—it was funny—and Aradreleg’s expression eased. But if she laughed, the moment held much sadness, too, for it showed her more sharply than gowns and jewels and the deference of great lords what a vast gulf there now was between her and those she had once thought of as her peers. Somewhere, in the back of her thoughts, had been the hope that when her great work was done she could simply walk from the High King’s palace and be merely Vieliessar once more.
And now she knew that day would never come.
“I shall go and compose fair and clever words for you to take to War Prince Aranviorch, and perhaps, if they are fair enough, or clever enough, we shall not have to fight at all,” she said.
* * *
A fortnight after Laeldor fell by Magery, Vieliessar set forth with the last of her army.
Much had changed.
Iardalaith had come to the Sanctuary the year after she did. He had already been in training to become a knight when his Light was discovered. Now she learned he was a cousin to Damulothir Daroldan, for he had come to her in Laeldor both as Daroldan’s Envoy and to pledge his own person to her cause
. He discovered immediately that she meant to use Lightborn Magery upon the field, and to her great surprise, came to her with a proposal.
He would train her Lightborn to fight. She agreed to allow it.
Roughly a third of those Lightborn who followed Vieliessar, Iardalaith said, had the combination of temperament and talent to become what he named Warhunt Mages. She didn’t know the criteria he meant to use in choosing his people, nor did she know, then or ever, if he asked anyone who refused. She left the organization of the Warhunt entirely to Iardalaith.
By the time they reached Mangiralas, the Warhunt had begun to train. Instead of robes, they wore tunic, trews, and boots of Lightborn green. On the field, they would wear chain mail and cervelière cap. Iardalaith mounted them on Thoromarth’s swift, cherry-black racers so they could move speedily across the battle.
Some of those who followed Iardalaith were surprising: she hadn’t expected Rondithiel Lightbrother to join the Warhunt, but moonturns ago he had left the Sanctuary of the Star and sought her out. She did not know—had never sought to discover—his reasons, but whatever they had been, he had chosen to aid her in her fight.
But if Rondithiel’s membership in the Warhunt was a thing unexpected, still more was that of the three from Caerthalien: Bramandrin Lightsister, Pantaradet Lightsister, and Jorganroch Lightbrother, for Caerthalien had the most cause of any of the Twelve to hold itself insulted by her actions. But Iardalaith’s Lightborn had quickly abandoned identification with this House or that, becoming merely Pelashia’s Children again, as they had all been in the Sanctuary. In the cool twilight, when camp had been set for the day, she watched them drilling upon the field, their spells flickering like summer lightning.
And in the back of her mind was this thought: if the Lightborn could learn new ways and set aside old loyalties, the rest of her people could as well.
* * *
Isilla returned to Vieliessar when the army was halfway across Ivrithir to say War Prince Aranviorch rejected her terms, but offered others: a thousand horses, and a hundred of them to be chosen by her or by her envoy, to defer the battle for two years.
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