Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  “What could he possibly do against two great-tailles of Lightborn?” Dinias asked.

  “There are always some things it’s better to wonder than to find out,” Harwing said grimly.

  “Well, somebody’s going to have to go up to the door and knock,” Isilla pointed out. “All we can tell from here is that Hamphuliadiel’s building a village. Which does not—as Rondithiel would be the first to tell us—violate Mosirinde’s Covenant.”

  “I’ll go,” Harwing said. “I’m the logical choice.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Isilla said. “My Keystone Gift is Overshadow. They can’t make me do anything I don’t want to.”

  “Except die, once they listen to your thoughts,” Harwing said.

  “That … isn’t exactly…” Dinias said.

  “It’s so much fun to listen to the two of you pretending that anybody’s paying attention to either the Codes or the Covenant any more,” Harwing interrupted irritably. “The Codes say that any spell cast is considered the equivalent of a blow struck, which means it’s a cause for war.”

  “Unless lawfully set upon a vassal, an outlaw, or a beast,” Isilla finished impatiently. “You talk as if the Astromancer is a War Prince.”

  “Isn’t he?” Harwing asked. “As for the Covenant, it only says we can’t take Light from any source other than the Flower Forests, nor in such quantity as to harm by the taking. That leaves the Astromancer plenty of things to do—if he sees cause. But my Keystone Gift is Heart-Seeing.”

  “That just means he won’t be able to force you to speak the truth,” Dinias pointed out. “Not that he can’t eavesdrop.”

  “I’m good at guarding my thoughts,” Harwing said. “Better than you are, Talks-to-Rocks.”

  “Transmutation is a useful spell!” Dinias protested.

  “Unless you’re dealing with people,” Harwing said.

  “So what are you going to do?” Isilla asked. “And how long do we wait for you?”

  “Not even a candlemark,” Harwing said, getting to his feet. “Go back to camp and tell Rondithiel to leave at once—and to stay clear of anything that looks as if the Sanctuary’s claimed it. Tell him I don’t think Hamphuliadiel’s going to give us any help, and may do us much harm. I’ll catch up to you if I can, and I’ll try to Farspeak you. Listen for me at dawn for as long as you can.”

  “Until I see your body laid upon its pyre,” Isilla said fiercely, rising to her feet and giving Harwing a swift hug. “May Pelashia defend you.”

  “And, uh, the Silver Hooves, too,” Dinias said awkwardly. “They watch over all battles.”

  That made Harwing smile sadly. “If I ride with the Silver Hooves, I will see Gunedwaen again,” he said quietly.

  “Then let it be so,” Isilla said. “But not soon.”

  * * *

  Harwing crouched down again once they were gone. Once word of his presence reached Hamphuliadiel, the Astromancer would certainly order a search of Arevethmonion no matter what Harwing told him, so he’d give Isilla and Dinias time to get well away before he drew attention to himself. He looked back out over the fields, letting his mind wander as he waited. Almost Sword Moon now; the fields were lush and green. There were a few folk moving among the young plants, checking for predation or weeds, but it was clear the harvest would be a good one. Enough grain to keep not only the folk here but all their animals through the winter, though it would be a few years yet before the new orchards were bearing their plums and apples, unless the Lightborn forced them by Magery. The town wasn’t walled; clearly the villagers didn’t expect to defend themselves—though there was certainly something here they needed defense from: he could see the bright patches where roofs had been partly rethatched, the blotching of new limewash on rebuilt walls.

  A fire, certainly, perhaps a raid, and not that long ago. Pennynorn said he’d seen a lot of signs that the Beastlings moved west in force recently: since neither komen nor commons would attack the Sanctuary of the Star, that’s the only possibility left. And I will not know more until I go and see.

  Harwing resigned himself to the knowledge that he might well become one of those who went in to the Sanctuary and never came out again. But that, too, was information of a sort. Rondithiel would pass it to Vieliessar, and she would know what to do with it. As she did with my Gunedwaen, who bought her the victory with his own life. It was for that reason that Harwing could not love her, though he would serve where his oath had been given.

  What you seek determines who you must be to go searching for it. Who you are determines how you will go. The tale of that seeker starts years before the first step. His first, best, lessons in the true craft of the Swordmaster: gathering information by subterfuge. Who should Harwing be, to learn what he’d come to find?

  I am Harwing Lightbrother. That much must be, when I return to the place where I was trained and the teachers who trained me. I am of Oronviel: they know this as well. I rode east in Fire Moon with all Vieliessar’s grand array—as a Lightborn of Oronviel, I would have no choice. And now I come alone to the Sanctuary of the Star.

  Why?

  Because Gunedwaen is dead. The thought, and the realization of what he meant to do with it, made Harwing catch his breath. But it would work. He thought of what Gunedwaen would have said, if he brought him this plan. The smile of astonished surprise. The joyful laugh at the cleverness of it.

  Gunedwaen is dead, and Vieliessar threw him away on the battlefield, nor did she send him to ride with the Starry Hunt with honor, for his body was left to lie as food for ravens and worms. She casts down the War Princes as she has said, and she casts aside Arilcarion as well. I will not serve such a one. And so I came away—

  He paused. Alone? He shook his head slowly. He must assume Rondithiel’s party had been seen or spoken of.

  —and so I took my chance, and came west with the Lightborn Vieliessar sent into the west. But I left them behind, and I know not where they are now.

  That much was true. He could say they rode to aid the Western Shore, since Hamphuliadiel already knew it was embattled—at least, if Ciadorre and Ulvearth had reached him, and there was no reason to think they had not. None of the Lightborn with Rondithiel had ridden wearing Lightborn green; Hamphuliadiel would believe him if he said most of the party—should he know its size, or should Harwing be forced to tell it—was Lightless.

  He frowned, concentrating, thinking of the tale he must weave into a cloak that would both conceal his true nature and direct his actions.

  And so we came west, through the Southern Pass, into Sierdalant. And we found it a ghostlands, and all to its west as empty as Farcarinon. And so I came here. When I saw the village and the fields, I didn’t know what to think. I went to see what I could learn, for I feared to face you, knowing I had disobeyed your word by serving Vieliessar.

  Yes. That would serve. Enough truth to persuade. Enough to explain why he’d gone to the village instead of to the Sanctuary—for that was the first place his story would logically bring him. He would go as just another refugee. His hair was no shorter than any Landbond’s, and the refugees who reached here probably had no idea of where they were. It wasn’t as if the commonfolk ever saw the Sanctuary of the Star, just to begin with—to them it would be just another lesser keep. If he could find out all he wanted to know without ever going inside the Sanctuary gates, well and good. He’d slip away and Farspeak what he learned to Isilla as soon as he had the chance.

  If he couldn’t …

  Then I will serve Hamphuliadiel with as much loyalty and faithfulness as he could ask from one who has repudiated the madness of Vieliessar Farcarinon. And I will not take the first chance or the second to escape. I will count them as I count the moonturns, and take not the first one, but the best.

  He settled himself more comfortably. If Hamphuliadiel had foresters, they would find this spot, and know it was a place where someone had watched and waited, gathering up his courage to approach the village. Such a timid suspicious soul would wait
until twilight, when he could cross the fields without being seen. And so Harwing would sit, and wait, and think only that he longed for comfort and safety, shelter and hot food. A place in a world he understood.

  And he would hope Hamphuliadiel would believe it.

  * * *

  When it was dark, and the windows of the few stone buildings of the village were lit, Harwing Lightbrother made his way toward it. On most farms, the fields were separated by hedgerows, but not here. Here, there were narrow footpaths between the fields, where incautious travel would not crush the growing plants. This land had been meadow and open forest when he had been a Postulant at the Sanctuary. Had the Lightborn helped in clearing it?

  He reached out, cautiously, but could feel no residual trace of Light. All done by Lightless labor, then. He supposed it had been a great deal of work. It couldn’t have begun before the False Parley last Sword Moon at the earliest, for only after that could it have escaped the War Princes’ attention. Harwing supposed Thurion might be able to assess how much work these fields represented with absolute accuracy, but Harwing had never gotten closer to the fields than when he’d turned the horses out to graze after the harvest was in; his mother had been one of the grooms in Thoromarth’s stables. He’d been lucky enough to come home to her after his time at the Sanctuary; few Lightborn ever saw their parents again after they took the Green Robe. Some never even saw again the domain they’d been born to, if they had been part of a war forfeit or a tithe …

  He wove the cloak of idle thoughts about his mind, and looked around him with wide eyes. While he had obviously entered the village itself, there were no stone houses here, or even timber ones. Here the structures were crude huts made by weaving branches together. Some were covered with turves. Others stood exposed. Landbond huts: holes dug down into the ground with a covering of branches. Anything more elaborate was the work of generations—or of a Farmholder willing to give his chattels time and materials to build better. Clearly Hamphuliadiel was not such a master.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Harwing stopped at the sound of the voice. “Looking for shelter,” he answered, equally quietly.

  The person who had hailed him was Landbond. Former Landbond, since Vieliessar’s decree, but the thing about making decrees was that then you had to enforce them. Truths matter less than facts, and always will, Gunedwaen’s voice said in his memory.

  The Landbond laughed harshly. “You’ll beg your shelter and your bread from Light’s Chosen, then?”

  Harwing approached cautiously. The Landbond sat on the ground, in the doorway of his hut. “Is there a keep near here?” Harwing questioned in turn. It was a reasonable question from someone who didn’t know where he was: the only places Lightborn lived were in keeps and large manor houses.

  “‘Keep,’” the Landbond answered. “Oh, aye, someday. And houses for all, and warm fires and hot food.” He held out his arms before him, inviting Harwing to look. He had only one hand. The other was a long-healed stump. “For those who can work.”

  “I can work,” Harwing said, taking it as an invitation to squat down beside him. “My name is Harwing. I used to work in a stable.”

  “Lodo,” the Landbond answered. He regarded Harwing steadily. “In the morning you should go to the gate. It will be better for you that way.”

  “I don’t understand,” Harwing said. “What gate? What village is this?”

  “Areve,” Lodo said. “The master of the Light’s Chosen made it. We came, because it was Sanctuary.”

  “I went away. With the army,” Harwing answered.

  “Wars are not for Landbonds,” Lodo said. He shrugged. “High King promised freedom. But she left. And the lords left. Some said this was freedom, and followed. But the winter was cold, and the wolves came, and there was no food.”

  “And now?” Harwing asked cautiously.

  Lodo simply shrugged again. “You should have stayed with your army. Unless your master was killed.”

  “He was,” Harwing said simply. They sat in silence for a while.

  There were a number of questions Harwing wanted to ask. How many people live here? Why did you leave your lands? How far did you walk to get here? What does Hamphuliadiel promise? How are you taken care of? But all of them would raise too much suspicion. And Lodo might not know anyway. Was this hole in the ground the extent of Hamphuliadiel’s charity? Or were these living conditions a sign of Areve’s quick expansion? Perhaps the people will build better houses after the harvest is in, he thought hopefully. The fields out there were the only source of food for both the Sanctuary and village. But it seemed just as likely that Hamphuliadiel cared as little for the people relying on him as the War Princes ever had.

  He untied the cloak he wore and held it out. “Here. Take this. I’ll go to the gate in the morning.”

  Lodo regarded it with suspicion. “You’ll need a place to sleep.”

  “I’ll find one.” He’d learned as much as he could here. He’d circle around to take a closer look at Rosemoss Farm, and then perhaps try the center of the village.

  Lodo reached out. Not to take the cloak, but merely to touch it. “A fine cloak,” he said doubtfully. “Too fine,” he said. “How should I come by it without stealing?”

  “I’m sorry,” Harwing said. He had little else, and Lodo was right. After a moment’s thought, he undid his belt and slipped off his knife in its sheath. “Here,” he said. “Take this. You can hide it. You’ve been kind to me, and I have nothing else to give you.”

  Lodo took the knife, and slipped it loose, one handed, to test the edge. He nodded, and tucked it into the front of his tunic. He got to his feet with slow care. “Don’t steal,” he said, the advice clearly payment for the gift. “They know. Some tried. They vanished.”

  Harwing got to his feet as well, picking up his discarded cloak. Vanished? He swallowed back a surge of nausea. If Hamphuliadiel was using the Light to kill …

  But no. He would have sensed it. He hoped.

  “I won’t steal,” he said. “I only want a safe place.”

  “Then Leaf and Star watch over you,” Lodo said.

  Harwing turned and walked back to the little path. He was more worried than he wanted to admit to himself. Perhaps he’d just take a look at the farm and leave—an incomplete report was better than none. He moved quietly and carefully until he passed the edge of Areve, then circled around behind the Sanctuary. The walls had been built up to rooftop height here as well, but they hadn’t been extended to cover the buildings themselves. At first he thought the ground-floor windows were still where they had been, until he took a closer look and saw that their wooden shutters had been Transmuted to stone, sealing the windows as surely as bricks and mortar would have. Aside from a few windows low in the Astromancer’s tower, the whole of the Sanctuary was dark. He went by as quickly as he could.

  Rosemoss Farm had been a small manor farm, the sort of place that would house several generations of a Farmhold family. It hadn’t been large enough to either have Landbonds or a separate section of farmworker cottages attached to it. Bellion had kept his two horses in the Sanctuary stables, as Harwing remembered. He wondered if Farmholder Bellion was still here.

  The farm, at least, was lit as it should be at this hour. Silverlight lanterns hung over the doors of the house and the stables, honest firelight shone from within the house. Where the woods had once come up nearly to the back of the house itself, all there was to see now was open land. The old barn was gone, and the clutter of outbuildings had been replaced by a stables that would not have been out of place in the shadow of a Great Keep. There was a fenced pasture behind it, and there were several horses turned out in it. Palfreys or destriers? It was worth a closer look.

  Harwing circled around carefully, knowing that if the alarm was raised, the nearest cover was too far away to reach. He had just crossed into the shadow of the stables when the first body struck him.

  He fell to the ground stunned, smelling the scent
of dog and hearing the panting of breath. But even now, the beast did not bark. Beasts. More than one, a pack, quarreling amongst themselves in a terrible silence. The leader had his arm in its jaws, its teeth sunk into his flesh. He could not cast Shield with no space between them and in another moment one of them would go for his throat.

  Light.

  The spell he cast was not the gentle glow of Silverlight, but the raw bright flare of a lightning strike. It was enough to make the pack recoil enough for him to cast Shield.

  He heard voices shouting in the distance.

  He turned to run, then realized he would have to drop Shield to do so. And if he did, the pack would attack once more.

  He was trapped.

  * * *

  He’d been brought into the Sanctuary, where Momioniarch Lightsister Healed his wounds and gave him tea. He’d been treated better than a War Prince would treat an enemy komen, not as well as one might treat a friend. A servant brought him Lightborn robes. His own clothing had been taken away, but even if they cast Knowing upon the garments, the spell would not tell them anything to contradict his story.

  And when Harwing had changed his clothing, Momioniarch brought him to Hamphuliadiel.

  “Harwing Lightbrother, once of Oronviel. I confess I am surprised to see you abandon your High King.”

  He stood at the foot of Hamphuliadiel’s throne. The Astromancer’s audience chamber was the most opulent thing Harwing had ever seen; its treasure enough to buy the contracts of all the vanished Free Companies and not be visibly diminished. Harwing let his amazement and confusion rise to the top of his thoughts; there was no reason to conceal them.

  “I thought it would be different when she won,” Harwing said grudgingly. The sight of this place and all it contained told him so many things about the state of Hamphuliadiel’s mind that Harwing quietly began to doubt he would ever leave the Sanctuary alive.

  Let it be so. My death will tell Rondithiel much of what he needs to know. He buried that thought deeply, below so many layers that even Thurion could not have teased it out.