“Why, then we shall have accomplished the task for which He Who Is created us,” Gholak said. “And we will stand before Him once more.”
“Will we?” Shurzul asked. She gestured, the sweep of her hand taking in the whole of her lush and terrible body. “How many children have you borne, Gholak?”
Gholak frowned. “Why, how should I know? Bad enough I must carry them. What are the Lesser Endarkened for, if not to perform such menial tasks as raising them?”
“You have created life,” Shurzul pointed out. “King Virulan has created life in you.”
Gholak took a step backward, her fangs bared as she hissed. “Tainted bitch! How dare you?”
“I?” Shurzul laughed outright now. “Was it I who twisted my form, or yours, from the purity of what He Who Is fashioned? Was it I who chose to turn the Twelve into festering cauldrons of creation?”
“Eleven, not twelve. Eleven is not all. It is true that the King’s great spell was to fall upon all the Dark Guard equally, but Lord Uralesse escaped through trickery,” Gholak added admiringly, for treachery was as prized as power among the Endarkened.
“And the Created and Changed are now ten, not eleven, for Rugashag displeased him,” Shurzul said, mocking Gholak’s pedantic tone.
“Her dying was long and exquisite,” Gholak said happily. “At the end … she begged as the Brightworlders beg.”
For a moment Shurzul smiled, contemplating that memory. It had proved Virulan was meant to rule them, for his art was great. Then she sobered again. “But the Endarkened are not ten,” she said. “Nor are we twelve. We are many. Not formed by He Who Is out of the Eternal Void. Born. Those we have … created … have created others in turn, and their creations have created more, and—”
“Stop!” Gholak barked.
She turned away, motioning for Shurzul to follow her. They walked along the top of the walls until they reached the edge of the pens. Here the rock beneath their feet was solid, the rock above their head only crudely shaped. When the Lesser Endarkened had made this chamber, they had left room to expand it at need. Once Gholak had gloried in that thought as proof the power of the Endarkened would continue to increase. Now, for the first time, it made her uneasy.
“What is this you are saying?” she asked Shurzul, and now her voice was low, too soft for the Lesser Ones to hear.
“I say the killing will be glorious,” Shurzul said. “But that the Red Harvest will have an end, as all Bright World things end. And when we have slain the Lesser Ones as well, and the Born, only the Created will remain. What then?”
“War,” Gholak breathed rapturously. “Glorious war.”
“And it, too, will end,” Shurzul said mercilessly, “And what then? What of the victors? What of us?”
At last Gholak’s eyes widened with comprehension. She looked down, running her powerful clawed hands over the jutting breasts, the narrow waist, the swelling hips Virulan’s sorcery had given her. “He Who Is…” she breathed.
“Will take us back,” Shurzul said quickly. “Will purify us of Bright World taint and make us, once more, One with the Void. His power is infinite. He can do all things. But who will ask this boon of Him?”
Gholak’s lips writhed back from her teeth. Her long ivory fangs gleamed in the faint phosphorescence of the fungus. Virulan would not ask—this much she knew. Virulan needed no purification. Nor did Uralesse. They alone of all the Created were as they had been first formed. Uralesse and Virulan would bathe in the blood of all Life, destroy all the Lesser Endarkened, destroy all the Born, and, when their task was done, would become One with the Void once more. Their reward—and theirs alone, for both Gholak and Shurzul knew neither of them would ask a boon of He Who Is.
The Created-and-Changed would die with the Born.
Unless …
“I am loyal to our King,” Gholak said quickly. “He who sits upon the Throne of Night. He who wears the Crown of Pain.” Even to her own ears, her words sounded hollow.
“As am I,” Shurzul answered instantly. “Never would I court Rugashag’s fate. Never would I displease King Virulan—nor Uralesse, who is first among the Twelve-that-Were, the Unchanged. And so, when the day of glory King Virulan has promised comes to us, surely both of them must be in the vanguard? First to slay. First to kill.”
Or to be slain, Gholak thought in the most secret part of her mind. She knew the Endarkened could die. Rugashag had only been the first. As the Endarkened had grown more numerous, so had the plots to take the throne and the crown. All had been foiled. The traitors had died. Should Virulan die also, it must seem—be!—wholly an accident. A destruction in battle. It could not be arranged quickly.
But it must take place.
The Changed—the Born—must make certain that this war went on for a long, long time.
* * *
Elsewhere in the World Without Sun, the King of the Endarkened and Uralesse, his most treacherous vassal, walked in the Garden of Tears.
The air was vibrant with the power of despair, for the Garden of Tears was filled with delicate, unbreakable cages of vitrified spiderwebs. Each cage held a Bright World captive, his or her sanity utterly destroyed by moonturn after moonturn of merciless, expert torture. All that was left to these shattered prisoners was the ability to feel terror and pain. The first, by now, was an eternal companion. The second … well, that was up to them. The strands that formed their cages were sharper than the sharpest razor. The victims could neither sit nor lie down; to rest against the sides of their prisons was to be flayed by degrees. Determination and will could have gained them a speedy death, but their wills, along with their minds, were long destroyed. All that was left for them was to recoil, again and again, from the bright agony of the razor sharp strands, to scream and moan in agony. And to weep.
Virulan paused to inhale deeply, relishing the scent of blood and rot. The exhibits in his garden must be refreshed every few days, for fever, exhaustion, and blood loss took their inevitable toll on the Brightworlders very quickly. But while they suffered, it was glorious.
His garden had a purpose beyond beauty, however, for Virulan had not remained King of the Endarkened by being either weak or trusting. Every one of his subjects plotted and schemed to place themselves upon the Throne of Night, as was only right and proper. Virulan cherished their ambition and greed, even as he did everything he could to render it fruitless.
Uralesse was … a problem. The cleverest of the Dark Guard. Second in power only to Virulan himself, and far too useful to cast aside lightly. And so Virulan showed Uralesse every sign of favor, such as the invitation he had tendered upon his Rising for Uralesse to share the pleasure of his garden. In the heady atmosphere of the Garden of Tears, one who was unused to its rich bounty could easily become drunk upon that bounty, rendering them … overconfident. Perhaps Uralesse, intoxicated by Virulan’s flowers of mourning, would make a mistake.
“Why do we not go forth at once?” Uralesse asked his King. “You have said the time is upon us. Yet we delay.”
“Do you believe we delay?” Virulan asked mildly.
“We.… We’re still here,” Uralesse answered dazedly. His yellow eyes glowed with euphoria. “I mean … my King, you said the hour was at hand…” Uralesse took a deep breath, clearly attempting to master the sweet blandishment of the agony that filled the air. “I merely beg the indulgence of your wisdom.”
Virulan hid his disappointment. There would be no interesting transgressions this Rising, it seemed.
“Why, my dear brother, you must never hesitate to confide your innermost thoughts to me. We have spent unimaginable Bright World years … waiting. Concealing ourselves. Concealing our very existence from the Brightworlders until the moment is ripe. Why not fly forth at once to slake our appetites, eh?”
“There is a good reason, my King,” Uralesse answered humbly. “But I do not know it. Only you know it.”
“Just so,” Virulan said. “And so I ask you: Would it not be an exquisite thing to
fall upon the vast tribe of Elflings as they all gathered together? Think of the carnage! Think of the terror of those we allowed to flee the killing ground—and what sport we could have in hunting them down one by one. Think of the glory beneath the Bright World sun of nothing but butchered meat as far as the eye can see.…”
“Beautiful, my lord King,” Uralesse breathed in ecstasy. “It would truly be … the greatest work of art you have yet revealed to us.”
“And so it shall be,” Virulan said kindly. He paused before one of the cages to prod its occupant with a long talon. The creature screamed in shock, flinging itself forward and backward against the latticework until its skin was a tracery of fresh cuts and welling blood. The Brightworlders could not see anything, of course. The Garden of Tears was lightless, imperceptible save by the senses of the Endarkened. Virulan’s touch would have seemed to come from nowhere.
He turned to Uralesse. “Even now they gather together,” Virulan said. “And so … we await the moment … of perfection.”
CHAPTER SIX
RAIN MOON: THE MYSTERY OF CHAINS
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
It was Rain Moon. The patter of raindrops was loud on the fabric of the pavilion, and the warmth of the stove was welcome. Though the fabric of the scarlet War Pavilion was bespelled to silence, its front was open to the air so that messengers could easily come and go, and the sounds of building—even in weather such as this—could be heard clearly.
As she had vowed, Vieliessar had sent Loremasters and Storysingers to Amretheon’s dead city, but she had sent stoneworkers and artisans as well, for if she was to build a city of her own, the best source of materials was the ruin above. Both the treasures of the ancient High King’s city—those which had survived the passage of millennia—and its building stones descended that enormous staircase in an unceasing stream. Here below, the foundations of a Great Keep and a city to replace the encampment of tents had already been laid. With the nigh-inexhaustible Light of Celenthodiel Flower Forest, and the quarried stone from Amretheon’s city, Vieliessar High King would be able keep her vow to have them all beneath roofs before Midwinter came.
In the War Pavilion set beside the fountain in the courtyard that would become the heart of the city she envisioned, Vieliessar read the endless dispatches and reports that would let her keep, rule, and expand her domain. The sheer clerkishness of rulership weighed heavily upon her spirit. A War Prince might hold court once a moonturn, and for a full sennight at Harvest and Midwinter, but the High King held court once each sennight and even that was not enough to grant audiences to all those who needed to see her—let alone to grant audiences to those who merely wanted to see her.
If the War Princes truly knew what it was to be High King, they would have left off vying for the Unicorn Throne long since!
From dawn to midday each sunturn Vieliessar took the reports of her chief counselors and those of her officials with whom she must meet daily, like the commander of the Lawspeakers, while her personal guard (handpicked by Helecanth) kept all others from approaching her and interrupting this vital yet tedious work. Despite all such care and planning, she could not sequester herself from everyone, for that road led to a disaster of another sort than that which would be summoned by failing to rule. Thus, the pavilion which took the place of a Great Hall was well inhabited, if not crowded, while she carried on the business of her king-domain, for her War Counselors had the right, by that appointment, to seek her out at her private court whenever they chose.
Whether—and how—they chose to exercise that right told her as much about their intentions as if she used True Speech to dip into their minds. Both Ivaloriel and Methothiel found many reasons to be present as she read dispatches, took reports, and read transcriptions of Farspeech or spellbird messages—Telthorelandor said he had lived so long that he was eager to see a thing he had not seen; Nantirworiel said he saw no reason to drink his own wine and sit beside his own brazier when he could make use of hers. Aramenthiali and Cirandeiron still held themselves apart, neither attending her privy court nor making excuses for their absence. It took no Foretelling to know there would be trouble from both War Princes eventually, but what lord had ever ruled without rebellion among their vassals?
I wish I might be the first.
“Haldil once again declares itself High King,” Rithdeliel said into the silence, brandishing a transcription she had not yet had time to read. “Tell me you’re surprised.”
“I am not,” Vieliessar said calmly. “Aradreleg, what of Hallorad?”
“Othrochel Lightbrother of Haldil has sent a spellbird…” Aradreleg said reluctantly.
“Haldil?” Vieliessar asked in surprise.
“Perhaps Gonceivis Haldil wishes us to surrender,” Atholfol said.
“It is not a word sent in Lord Gonceivis’s name,” Aradreleg hedged.
“It came to my hand,” Thurion said bluntly. “I was guested at Haldil, as all here know, and I made certain Othrochel could send to me, were matters at Haldil to … change.”
“They are unlikely to have changed since this morning,” Rithdeliel said, waving the scroll in his hand.
“Nor have they,” Thurion said calmly. “And so I left the matter in Aradreleg’s hands.”
“Left me to play Festival goat,” Aradreleg muttered, then, louder: “It touches upon the matter of Haldil, Lord Vieliessar,” Aradreleg said. “Yet it is hardly a boon within your power to grant.”
“Even if it were not Haldil asking,” Altholfol said.
“But what does Othrochel Lightbrother want?” Vieliessar said, holding firmly to her temper.
“He asks if any of the High King’s Lightborn possess the gift of Prophecy,” Aradreleg said. “That he may learn why Hallorad has fallen silent.”
There was a silence in the pavilion as all the members of the council contemplated the outlandish request. Or perhaps he asks merely to discover what Gifts my Lightborn have, for never did a prince or his vassal lords say one thing without meaning three others, Vieliessar thought.
“Wouldn’t a prophecy tell what was going to happen and not what had?” Nadalforo asked.
“Yes—and no,” Vieliessar answered gently. “But I am not sure…”
“How shall it matter, when no one now here in Celenthodiel has Prophecy as their Keystone Gift,” Aradreleg said, frowning. “It is rare, as you know, my lord. Arahir Lightsister possesses it. I know of no other.” And Arahir Lightsister was Chief Lightborn of Hallorad.
“Thurion, you know Arahir well enough to Farspeak her,” Vieliessar said.
Thurion sighed slightly. “I do. She has not been willing to answer for some time. Hallorad’s position is … difficult, as you know.”
“With Gonceivis closer to them than we are, and even so, not close at all,” Vieliessar agreed. “Thurion, do you know why Haldil is so anxious?”
Thurion hesitated. “Othrochel did not wish to give me more information than he must—for as you well know, Haldil is in rebellion against you—but he is worried. Yet I know not why he would ask after a gift of Prophecy to discover Hallorad’s condition when some Lightborn of the Windsward Houses might Overshadow a bird of the air…”
“And if they did so, they might have Seen Hallorad through its eyes,” Vieliessar said, for the benefit of those present who were not Lightborn. “But only if there is someone in the Windsward who has it as their Keystone Gift, and they are very skilled.” Overshadow was a spell widely feared: it could take away its victim’s will, forcing them to move and speak and act at the will of the caster. Those skilled in that spell could even see and hear what their subject experienced—but to hold the mind of a beast hundreds of leagues distant was far different from doing it to one of the Lightless.
“So what Othrochel Lightbrother asks of us, his master may already know,” Ivaloriel Telthorel
andor said.
“If Gonceivis already knows what happened to Hallorad, why is he asking you?” Rithdeliel demanded.
“Perhaps he does not,” Vieliessar said. “Or perhaps he seeks confirmation.” She got to her feet and crossed the pavilion to the ever-present map table. With the aid of the map-floor in Amretheon’s palace, her maps of the east were more detailed than they had ever been. Hallorad was a tiny speck on the banks of Greythunder Glairyrill. There was nothing nearby to account for its sudden silence. Unless the Beastlings have risen up there, as they have in the West … “Or perhaps he seeks to unsettle me, so that I will leave him and the Windsward alone.”
“If he thinks he can unsettle you, he doesn’t know you,” Atholfol said flatly.
“Even the other Windsward houses have heard nothing from Hallorad since the end of Midwinter Festival,” Aradreleg said with a sigh. “It may be that Hallorad wishes to hold itself apart from political entanglement until the matter has been decided by others, but there is no way for us to know. None of us can Farspeak Hallorad directly, for none of the Lightborn who remain with you know any of Hallorad’s people. It is hard to Farspeak someone you do not know.”
“Hard,” Vieliessar knew, meant “all but impossible.” Farspeech relied on both Light and personal knowledge: Lightborn could only Farspeak easily with other Lightborn they knew. “If they cannot be Farspoken, then send a spellbird to Hallorad’s Chief Lightborn, saying I would have Paramarth Hallorad come to pledge fealty to me,” she answered.
“It shall be done, my lord,” Aradreleg said.
“And to Haldil?” Rithdeliel asked.
“Aradreleg, I would have you see if there is anyone here—aside from Thurion—who can Farspeak Othrochel Lightbrother or any other of Haldil. If not, he, too, shall receive a spellbird; bid him to say to War Prince Gonceivis he may rule what he withholds from me until next War Season. Say that after that, I shall come and take it. But do not say these things yet,” Vieliessar added. “Let my loyal vassals cross the Feinolons first.”
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