This was not a new problem. She thought for a moment before she spoke.
“If they will not work and will not keep the peace, take them through the Fireheart Pass and set them upon Ifjalasairaet,” Vieliessar said. “I will set guards in the pass so they may not return. Those who will not keep my law shall have none of the sweets of it.”
“I will see that this is spoken to all, my lord,” Gollor said, looking more cheerful. She bowed again, more deeply, and walked from the pavilion.
“They’ll only sneak back in,” Rithdeliel said, from the corner where he sat nearest the brazier. “Or turn to banditry.”
“At least we can hang bandits,” Atholfol said. As he spoke, he rubbed his arm in an absent gesture—partly to reassure himself of its presence, Vieliessar knew, for the Healing that had restored his severed limb had left him abed for more than a fortnight.
“If they can find anything outside Celenthodiel to steal within a hundred—no, a thousand—leagues, I shall be much astonished,” Vieliessar answered. “My lords, I never said I meant to simply turn the world upside down so that those who once worked could spend their days in idleness. Come to that, even the great lords work.”
“So we do,” Rithdeliel agreed. “But we also enjoy the privileges that go with being great lords. When was the last time you spent a day hunting? You work harder than a castellan’s least-favorite clerk.”
The simile made Vieliessar smile. “I hate to disappoint you, my lord Warlord, but I never learned a taste for hunting. Where is the sport in it, if a spell can bring the quarry to the spear?”
“You know,” Atholfol said meditatively, “you were a lot more cheerful when you were only prince of Oronviel and likely to be dead before the seasons changed.”
“The higher up the mountain you go, the more you can see,” Thurion said, not looking up from his scroll. “I am certain my lord High King much preferred being in the forest.”
Vieliessar shot him an irritated look.
“It’s true,” Thurion said blandly. “You always told me peace was harder than war. And we both know that unlearning habits is harder still.”
“You’re an exception, of course?” Nadalforo teased.
“I’m a Sanctuary Mage who was born Landbond,” Thurion answered simply. “I know as much about learning and unlearning as you do, Nadalforo.”
Nadalforo smiled brightly, acknowledging the hit. She had been a mercenary commander, and then a bandit leader, before pledging fealty to Vieliessar. But before either of those things, she’d been a Farmholder’s daughter.
“Your noble Warlord is right, though,” Nadalforo said, nodding in Rithdeliel’s direction. “You sit in this pavilion from sunrise to sunfall and beyond, and when you leave it, it’s only to work somewhere else. Why not do something fun for a change? If your king-domain collapses about you in the next few candlemarks, at least you’ll know it needs work.”
Behind her left shoulder, Vieliessar heard a sound that might have been a smothered laugh, but was certainly well disguised as a throat-clearing. She did not need to look to see that the face of the armored woman would be impassive. Helecanth’s always was.
She was not certain what whim of madness had possessed her to name Lady Helecanth of Caerthalien the chief of her personal guard. Caerthalien was erased, and there were other and easier ways of showing favor to its surviving Lords Komen. She refused to admit the possibility she’d done it because Helecanth had been ordered—by Runacarendalur Caerthalien himself—to remain and serve the new High King when the Alliance had lost.
Certainly that is no good reason, she told herself sternly. It is merely that Helecanth is good at her job. And to show favor to the relicts of Caerthalien costs me nothing.
“Fun,” Vieliessar repeated darkly. “Very well, my lords, advisors, councillors—and captains,” she said, to include Helecanth. “What fun shall I beguile these hours of nonexistent leisure with?”
“That’s an easy riddle,” Helecanth said, before anyone else could speak. “Go up and explore the keep upon the rock, as you have been meaning to for a moonturn. If Thurion Lightbrother and I can’t protect you there, you were probably cursed to die anyway.”
* * *
In the end, they all went: Atholfol, Rithdeliel, Nadalforo, Thurion, Helecanth, and Vieliessar.
At the center of the overgrown gardens and clogged fountains of the Grand Plaza which now held Vieliessar’s combined armies, there was a great spire of stone. A staircase wound around this spire, and—were one to borrow the eyes of a falcon—one could see that the top of the spire was flat, larger than ten Great Keeps, and covered with trees and buildings. Vieliessar had been promising herself the chance to go and see since the moment she first drank from the Unicorn Fountain.
And now she was. But not alone. I fear it is my hradan never to do anything alone again.
The staircase that led to the top of the spire seemed a delicate thing from a distance. It was only when one approached that one saw that it was as wide as the whole frontage of Caerthalien castel. She could not imagine how her ancestors had accomplished such a great work, and said so.
“It could be done,” Thurion said thoughtfully, inspecting the staircase. “With all of Tildorangelor to draw upon, one might shape rock in this wise. The Alliance did much the same to the Dragon’s Gate when it rode after us.”
“And drained nearly all the Flower Forests of the West to sleeping,” Helecanth said unexpectedly. Vieliessar glanced at her, and Helecanth shrugged minutely. She made no secret of her former loyalties, but rarely spoke of what she had seen and heard among the leaders of the Grand Alliance. “Aramenthiali’s mother had the notion—and she’d know, of course—and the Twelve agreed on it. So outriders took down the boundary stones of the domains as we crossed them. Cirandeiron’s still stand, but no others along our line of march.”
“That will save me the trouble of removing them myself,” Vieliessar said simply.
* * *
It was a candlemark and a little more of walking before the six of them stood at the top of a staircase facing an immense open space laid with worked stone like the Great Hall of a War Prince’s castel, but open to wind and sky. At the far end of it was an open archway set into a stone wall, carved and pierced as if it were a wooden latticework in some fine lady’s chamber. The same upstart vines that had found purchase on the rough surface of the spire were wound over and around the stone, setting new leaves with the coming of spring. Such a wall couldn’t be for defense, and Vieliessar could see no sign there had ever been any barrier closing off that archway.
“These folk had no enemies,” Helecanth said flatly, coming to stand once again at Vieliessar’s shoulder.
She is right. For the first time in many moonturns, Vieliessar thought of the Ghostlords, the folk of Amretheon’s court whose lives she had relived in dreams as the Prophecy taught her all she must know to become Amretheon’s successor. The ancient dreams that had taught Vieliessar the words for “city” and “infantry” had never showed her this; she didn’t have true names for any of the things she saw. She walked to the edge of the low wall that bounded the open space and peered over the edge.
“If you mean to throw yourself over the edge, I could have saved myself the trouble of following you here and be safe and warm in Ivrithir Keep,” Atholfol said.
“And taxed to annihilation by the High Houses,” Vieliessar answered lightly. She looked to her right; below her she could see the top of the curtain wall, the plain beyond, and the forest beyond that. And beyond the dark green of the winter forest, a sea of grey stretched into the distance: the Flower Forest Ivrulion had killed.
“Perhaps the city was sworn to peace, as the Sanctuary is,” Thurion said slowly. He walked past them to stand in the center of the vast open space.
She shivered and turned away from the sight of the Ghostwood. “Let us go on,” she said, and walked through the archway.
* * *
Even in its death and disarray,
the city was beautiful. Anything made of wood had rotted away to dust, but the walls that endured were covered with the twining canes of climbing roses and thick hardy branches of ancient ivy. The utter strangeness of it reduced all of them to silence—and, perhaps, to fear.
“We should turn back,” Rithdeliel said roughly. “You’ve seen it now.”
“No,” Vieliessar answered. “Not yet. There’s something…” There is something I must learn from this place. It is why I have come. She reached out to place her hand, palm flat, against the nearest wall.
“Thurion,” she said. “Come here.”
He joined her, frowning in puzzlement, and placed his hand beside hers.
“It cannot be…” he whispered.
“What?” Atholfol’s question was sharp with tension.
Thurion lifted his hand away and turned. “All things crafted by the Light retain an echo of their making, even if the Light has gone. But there is no Magery here. There never was. If their spells of Preservation had failed, with Tildorangelor to call upon I could wake them again, even after so long. But there is nothing.”
“No magic?” The impossibility of it was clear in Rithdeliel’s voice.
“There never was,” Vieliessar answered.
“You cannot build a Great Keep without Magery,” Atholfol said flatly.
“And yet this Keep is here,” Helecanth said, her voice schooled to evenness.
“And it will be here tomorrow, and a thousand tomorrows hence,” Rithdeliel said sharply. “My lord. It is time for us to return.”
Vieliessar opened her mouth to protest, then saw Thurion looking at her apprehensively. He nodded fractionally. “We have stayed too long already,” he said in a low voice.
She glanced around, seeing the same disquiet on the face of each of her companions. Reluctantly, she turned back the way they had come. Now Nadalforo led them, her strides so long she was nearly running.
It is this place, Vieliessar thought as she followed. It speaks to all of us, and the tale it tells does not make good hearing. To see this place—even in the disorder of its long-dead bones—was defeat, was loss, was bereavement so great that she could spend her whole life trying and not reckon up its true extent. Amretheon’s royal city was a thing the greatest War Prince couldn’t conceive of, nor all the Lightborn joined together build. It was the place her people had come from, symbol of the power they had once had. And now we crouch in little stone boxes and plot to kill one another and even I couldn’t see how pitiable we have become!
Vieliessar dragged in a deep breath, shocked to find it catching on a sob. What could Darkness do to them that could compare to what they had done to themselves? What did she battle to save her people for, when she couldn’t imagine them becoming the builders of a city like this even if a hundred thousand lifetimes should pass? Iardalaith was right, she thought wearily. And Gunedwaen, and Thoromarth, and Rithdeliel, and every one of my commanders whom I didn’t consult but who would have said the same: seeking out Amretheon’s city was madness.
They reached the Plaza again.
“We should pause here and rest before we begin our descent,” Helecanth said collectedly. She held out a waterskin. “Drink, my lord.”
Numbly, Vieliessar took the waterskin. Its contents were sharp and bitter; the water had been mixed with tea and vinegar to keep it from going bad.
“I say we burn it,” Atholfol said roughly. “Burn the whole place to ash and cinder. Use Lightborn if you will. Komen with torches if you will not.”
“No,” Vieliessar said steadily. “This was Amretheon’s city once. It is mine now.” Because Amretheon chose you. He looked at the future and crafted his Prophecy and you stood before his living face and he said he chose you. If she despaired here, if she gave up … Even the memory of her people’s ancient glory would be lost forever.
She was weary of fighting. Sick of battle. And her war hadn’t even truly begun.
“You cannot mean to live here?” Rithdeliel’s voice was a mixture of astonishment and despair.
“No,” Vieliessar answered sadly. “We … We are not Amretheon’s people. Nor will we ever be. That time is ended. But we may learn from what has gone before.”
“Then send Loremasters and Storysingers,” Rithdeliel said, slinging his waterskin over his shoulder once more. “For I shall never come back here.”
“In that one thing, my lord Warlord, we are agreed,” Nadalforo said. “And may the Hunt take me swordless do I ever again say that Vieliessar High King should leave her scrolls and her maps!” She turned and began walking toward the steps, her back straight.
“And you, Thurion?” Vieliessar asked. “What do you say?”
“I say now as I have said before,” he answered softly. “The road you walk is paved with swords. But where you go, I will follow.”
* * *
Shatub crouched at the top of one of the crumbling buildings, his great crimson wings folded tightly about him. The two Elfling Mages had not sensed his presence, and the others were nothing more than blind meat. He lashed his long barbed tail in frustration. So close! He growled deep in his throat. Virulan delayed without reason! The time of the Red Harvest had come, when the Endarkened were to fly forth to purify the Bright World once and for all. It had been promised.…
He bared his long ivory fangs in defiance, even though there was no one to see. Many things had been promised. Beautiful death, beautiful pain, reunion with He Who Is.
But for us as well?
Shatub was Born. He had come forth from the body of Shurzul, growing inside her as Life grew in the bodies of the Brightworlders. The shame of it was with him in every breath he took. Born. Begotten of a body’s meat. Would He Who Is embrace such foulness with His black sterile love?
Only if such love is earned.
The only coin to buy such love was blood. Blood, pain, death. And still Virulan delayed.
Shatub spread his wings. Virulan was King. The penalty for disobedience was agony and obliteration. He dared not.
Not yet.
He sprang into the sky. A moment later he was gone.
* * *
Once, the power of the Deep Earth had been all the Endarkened needed to sustain themselves. Then, the World Without Sun had been pure and perfect. But that was before King Virulan had cast the spell that had changed the Endarkened so utterly. Now the World Without Sun crawled with life. With food. Glowing fields of fungus, nests of pale worms and tunneling insects, lightless lakes of eyeless swimming things. The greatest delicacies of all were kept here in these pens: captives stolen from the World Above, destined to live out their brief, agonizing lives as workers and toys before—inevitably—they made their way to the banquet tables.
The slaves had an even more sacred purpose than nourishing the Endarkened’s physical forms, though the creatures didn’t appreciate it. All magic in the World of Form came at a price. The Endarkened drew their power from death, from blood, and from pain. The Brightworlders were here to provide all three.
Two Endarkened stood upon the walls of the slave pens, watching over the work of their inferior kin; the Lesser Endarkened. When their numbers had increased to the point that magic could no longer take care of their every need, King Virulan had created the slave race to perform all the menial tasks the Endarkened scorned. Unlike those whose image He Who Is had shaped, the Lesser Endarkened were not all of one form. Their bodies might be covered with scales or spines or fur; their feet might be clawed or pawed or hoofed; they might have wings and tails and horns … or not. The only characteristic they all shared was a dimwitted and absolute loyalty to their Endarkened masters.
“He says to us our great day comes.” Shurzul’s tone did not—quite—veer to open mockery.
“Do you doubt the King’s word?” Gholak swirled the whip at her side in lazy punctuation to her question. In immediate response, the Lesser Endarkened scurried forward, their hunched scaled bodies rasping over one another with the sound of a horde of insects. Th
e inhabitants of the slave pens cringed away with moans and whimpers of fear. Blind in the darkness that was not dark to their captors, they had only their hearing to rely upon.
“No, fools!” Gholak cried, her whip raining blows on gleaming scaled forms and soft Bright World bodies indiscriminately. “I said feed them—not feed on them!”
With despondent chittering, the Lesser Endarkened hurried to obey.
“Now,” Gholak said, turning back to Shurzul. “You were saying?”
“Nothing,” Shurzul muttered, lifting her ribbed scarlet wings high and furling them tightly around her body. “I said nothing.”
“But I heard you,” Gholak answered, lightly mocking. “I heard you speak of King Virulan’s great word.” Her barbed tail lashed with barely concealed glee. Torment was sweet, and the Endarkened did not care who suffered it.
“You heard the King’s word as well as I,” Shurzul said sullenly, allowing her wings to droop. “King Virulan says the day is at hand when we may fly forth openly to make an end to the Brightworlders. He promises such an orgy of blood and pain as we have never known. We shall go forth from Obsidian Mountain to kill and feed until there is nothing left.”
“Yes. He has said all this. You and I stood together to hear him.” Now Gholak was puzzled, a sensation she did not care for. She sprang lightly to the pen below and snatched up the first creature to come to her hand. The Faun squealed in terror and pain as her talons pierced its tender flesh, bleating out its death agony as she slowly crushed it. When it was dead, she ripped it open and sucked the hot, tender organs from its body before flinging the gutted body aside and returning to the top of the wall. She licked the blood from her claws as the Lesser Endarkened scurried to retrieve the corpse, disjoint its limbs, and add its shredded body to the food they were distributing.
“You might have shared,” Shurzul pouted.
“Why should I, when you come to annoy me with riddles?” Gholak answered.
“Hardly a riddle,” Shurzul answered. “A question. When we have slain them all … what then?”
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