“And now you see that I was right,” Hamphuliadiel said archly. “But it does not tell me why you are here.”
Harwing allowed himself to swagger a bit, as a masterless Lightborn might. His keen senses had not missed Sunalanthaid Lightbrother standing, silent and self-effacing, at Hamphuliadiel’s side. “I didn’t have a choice. Your Lightborn brought me.”
“Don’t play games with me,” Hamphuliadiel snapped. “Your life is in my hands now.”
“Then kill me,” Harwing said simply. “What do I have to live for? Vieliessar Farcarinon has won. The Hundred Houses have pledged to her. The commonfolk love her, and whether the Lords Komen do or not really doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Doesn’t it?” Hamphuliadiel asked. “Don’t you think others will do as you have done? Leave her?”
“And go where?” Harwing asked, shrugging. “Perhaps you do not know what the Uradabhur is like just now.”
“Then tell me,” Hamphuliadiel said. “You will not find me too proud to listen to your words. As Astromancer, my first care is for you. All of you, my Lightborn.”
“Then you are the only one in all the Fortunate Lands that places us first,” Harwing said, allowing bitterness to tinge his words. For more than a candlemark he spoke, telling the tale as if Hamphuliadiel knew none of it, from the first battles in Jaeglenhend through the terrible winter’s war that followed, to the Battle of the Shieldwall Plain.
“I grieve with you at what Ivrulion was forced to do,” Hamphuliadiel said. “Vieliessar’s madness bred madness in all she drew into her web.”
“He turned a Flower Forest the size of Caerthalien to ash,” Harwing said flatly. “He fed his magic with the blood of his own son. It was his choice alone.” For victory, and to set the true heir of Caerthalien aside so he might become War Prince as well as Light-Prince.
“And yet … He would never have dreamed of usurping Runacarendalur’s place if Vieliessar had not begun this war,” Hamphuliadiel said silkily.
“I suppose,” Harwing answered grudgingly. “He did it because the Alliance was losing. And they still lost. All he managed to do was kill half the Lightborn there. And now she’s sent most of the rest to the west.” He took up the balance of his tale, telling what had happened in the brief sennights between her victory and the granting of Iardalaith’s petition. “She couldn’t send komen, and Iardalaith said the Shore needed Lightborn more. So she sent them—us—with Rondithiel as our leader. I’d made up my mind to go anyway, but it was safer to go with a large party. Easier, too. No one asked ‘why’ any of us wished to go—it was enough to volunteer. Rondithiel was the only one who went because he was ordered to. Sending him was meant for proof, I suppose, that she had not abandoned Mosirinde’s teachings.”
“Or perhaps she took the chance to send away the only Lightborn who could rebuke her for such transgressions,” Hamphuliadiel said. “Where is Rondithiel and his party now?”
“I don’t know,” Harwing said. “I slipped away when we neared Arevethmonion. He wanted to avoid the Flower Forest. They’ve been unlucky for us.”
“Unlucky?” Hamphuliadiel’s voice sharpened. “A Flower Forest?”
Harwing shrugged. “We came through the forest and over the Southern Pass—the Dragon’s Gate was opened so wide the ice there probably won’t melt until Harvest. Rondithiel told us we could not stop to aid any refugees we met, as we must reach the Shore as swiftly as we could. We meant to keep to the Flower Forests, but … supplies went missing. We all felt as if we were being watched, constantly. Pennynorn Lightbrother said it reminded him of Delfierarathadan. I suppose the others have gone on to Cirandeiron. Pennynorn said he knew the trick to let them cross the Angarussa.”
“I find it odd that Rondithiel would not come to the Sanctuary,” Hamphuliadiel said. “Surely he would seek what aid and shelter we could give?”
“Your silence disturbed him,” Harwing said frankly. “As did Iardalaith’s tale that Amrolion’s envoy and the komen with her vanished within sight of your walls.”
Hamphuliadiel shook his head sorrowfully. “Vieliessar’s poisonous counsel has spread farther than I could have believed. Do you wish to speak to the Lightsister, Harwing?”
“You say that as if you’re trying to convince me of something,” Harwing pointed out.
“Trust begets trust,” Hamphuliadiel said. “Why should I trust you? You’ve told me a preposterous story. You didn’t mean to come to the Sanctuary. You were captured. You’re a spy for Vieliessar. You believe her lies.”
A thousand questions, ideas, conclusions tried to come to the surface of his mind. Harwing forced them down, along with the consciousness of his danger. He was Harwing Lightbrother. He’d fled the High King’s array.
“That’s the trouble, Astromancer. They aren’t lies.”
“So you admit you are her creature?” Hamphuliadiel said, with a strange smile.
“They aren’t lies,” Harwing repeated, more strongly. “She said she’d take the Unicorn Throne. She has. She said she’d free the Landbonds. She has. She said she’d make one justice for everyone. She has. I don’t like the results. But she hasn’t lied.”
“She says she is the Child of the Prophecy,” Hamphuliadiel said. “Do you believe it?”
Of course Harwing knew The Song of Amretheon. Every Postulant studied it. Gunedwaen had said—
“She believes it,” Harwing said sharply.
“Do you know what we do here, Lightborn?” Hamphuliadiel asked. “You’ve seen Areve. Do you know why it is being built?”
“The refugees…” Harwing began.
“She has broken the world! They have no one else to turn to—but us! The Lightborn! We are all that stands between Mosirinde and Arilcarion and the Darkness! She is the Darkness! She! Vieliessar!”
Hamphuliadiel was on his feet. The transition between calm questioning and shouting rage was so abrupt, so unexpected, that there was room in Harwing’s mind for only one thought.
Gunedwaen never believed. He served her out of loyalty to Farcarinon. But he never believed she was the Child of the Prophecy.
And suddenly, it all seemed terribly possible.
She did not win her wars because anyone believed. She won by spellcraft and promises. She said she’d free the Landbonds and the commonfolk. She told us she would keep Mosirinde’s Covenant if we would fight beside her. She gave everyone who followed her what they wanted: Thoromarth and Atholfol, relief from clientage. Iardalaith, the chance to go to war. Rithdeliel, his honor. And once the High Houses had allied against her, everyone was afraid of their anger. We Lightborn would be exempt from their punishment—but not our families.
“She betrayed us,” he groaned aloud. “She manipulated us until it was too late for any of us to turn back—there is no place for any of us now—”
“No,” Hamphuliadiel said gently. “There is always refuge for the Lightborn in the Sanctuary of the Star. And forgiveness, too.”
Harwing dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hands. “The West is a ghostlands. The east is an abattoir. Astromancer, how can I ever—” His voice was thick with tears.
Hamphuliadiel placed a gentle hand upon his head. “Hush, my child. While the Sanctuary stands, there is hope. With time and care, we can rebuild what she has broken.”
“How— She would not even let us build pyres for the dead! Gunedwaen—! How can we—?”
“We will find our way together,” Hamphuliadiel said kindly. “Our first duty is to those helpless innocents she abandoned, but we will speak of that later. You are weary. You must rest. We are so few, now, and the task is so great—”
“I will do anything I can,” Harwing said hoarsely. “Anything. I am so ashamed—”
“No,” Hamphuliadiel said, raising Harwing to his feet. “It is I who am ashamed. I had Vieliessar in my care, and I was unable to save her. I failed her, and in my failure, I failed all who depend upon my wisdom and care. But there is no need to speak of that now. Now you
must rest, and recover from your journey.”
With a gentle arm about Harwing’s shoulders, Hamphuliadiel walked him to the door of the audience chamber. Harwing looked about himself as if with new eyes. How could he ever have thought this place a grasping display of wealth? It was the visible token of the trust and respect the War Princes had given to the Light. Not to the Lightborn—he knew, now, he’d been wrong. Yes, they were servants. Vassals. Subservient to the commands of their masters, yes, but their purpose was to wield the Light so that the Lightless could see it manifest in the world. To help them. To guide the Lightless, as the Lightborn were guided by the Light.
The door opened. Momioniarch stood waiting.
“Take Harwing Lightbrother to his room. He is weary,” Hamphuliadiel said. “But now he is home.”
* * *
“It took you long enough to bespell him,” Hamphuliadiel said when Momioniarch returned.
“His mind was strong, and his thoughts were guarded,” Momioniarch said. “It is difficult to change the heart of one whose Keystone Gift is Heart-Seeing. Without the cordial I added to his tea, it would have been impossible.”
“But you did it?” Hamphuliadiel demanded.
Momioniarch smiled. “As I took him to his chamber he offered to seek out Rondithiel and bring him here.”
“And it will be a proof of my good intentions that I do not ask that of him,” Hamphuliadiel said archly.
“The Astromancer is both wise and merciful,” Momioniarch said, bowing. “What will you ask of him?”
“Nothing,” Hamphuliadiel said. “Nothing but loyalty—and service.”
Momioniarch bowed again at his gesture of dismissal, leaving Hamphuliadiel to his thoughts.
If loyalty could be gained by spellcraft, the Hundred Houses would have ended their fighting long ago. Overshadow could make its subject a helpless puppet—but only for as long as its caster held the spell. Illusion could deceive for only as long as its victim believed in it. Spells to manipulate the emotions were commonplace, and as finite as any geasa. Every spell ran its course, and reached its end.
But doubt … ah, let someone first doubt everything they had once believed to be true …
And such a spell would never be undone, for its subject, Lightborn or Lightless, would recast it daily out of their own fear or guilt.
Momioniarch’s delicate work could never have been performed in a War Prince’s court. Lightborn had spied upon one another as assiduously as they spied on—and for—their masters, and such manipulation was held to be as direct an act as a sword blow. Unthinkable against an enemy. Madness against a vassal, for it could never be kept secret.
But here it need not be. All trace of the spell would be gone by sunrise, but Harwing’s doubts would remain. Doubts Hamphuliadiel could manipulate as easily as he wove the Light.
It is no transgression of Mosirinde’s teachings to open the minds of the deluded to the truth, he told himself. I save my Lightborn from Vieliessar’s madness so that we may rebuild what she has shattered.
When Vieliessar returned to the west—if she returned to the west—she would discover it had slipped through her fingers. The Sanctuary of the Star would become a rallying point for all who had realized her madness too late.
And Hamphuliadiel Astromancer—Lord Astromancer, Prince of Areve—would be the one who would lead them.
CHAPTER NINE
THUNDER MOON AND BEYOND: THE ART OF WAR
Then did Amretheon Enslaver slay the heart and hopes of the folk, and then did Pelashia’s children flee to the West. And it was a dark time, yet all consoled themselves that it was not the darkest time, for that would only come when the Children of Stars set over themselves a new High King in Amretheon’s place, seated upon the throne of his shame.
—Chronicle of the Nine Races
It had been a gift unlooked-for when the Children of Stars took their quarrels beyond the mountains and went with all their folk to fight their battles there, and the Otherfolk took quick advantage of it. It had taken the Nine Races millennia to understand that even Pelashia’s sacrifice couldn’t gain them peace while the Children of Stars lived. From the Red Winnowing to this eve of the Red Harvest, they had tried so hard to reach the Children of Stars. To make them hear. And never with any success—only pain, and tears, and loss upon loss.
Only when the last of the Children of Stars was gone from the world would Leutric dare to give up the knowledge that would rouse the Bones of the Earth. Those were the only weapon that might protect the Otherfolk and the Brightfolk from the Red Harvest—and only the bloodline of Pelashia could wield them. That knowledge had been in his keeping since the day he reached adulthood, when his father showed him the way and the signs, and warned Leutric just as his own father had warned him:
The Bones of the Earth have no conscience. They have no loyalty. Whoever takes them up will own their power. See that it is not turned upon you.
And he had promised, as his father had promised, but his father had not lived in such times as Leutric did, to see each sign and portent appear telling that the time of the Red Harvest was near.
And so Leutric sent scouts eastward, and in time, his scouts returned, bearing with them two things: the news that every living thing in the land hastened westward—and the Child of Stars who had seen the southern Flower Forest die. His name was Runacar, and he was a prince of his people. Runacar did not know how narrow the knife blade was upon which he stood when he spoke before Leutric and his court to say that it was his brother who killed the forest and its people—his brother alone, at no one’s order. And he told Leutric something else, something whose importance he clearly did not understand.
“The Hundred Houses have lost. The High King has won. Vieliessar Farcarinon is High King over all the Fortunate Lands.”
The Fortunate Lands belonged to the Otherfolk, but Leutric did not say so. Nor did he say that this was the last of the signs given to the Otherfolk, that now the Red Harvest was a thing only sennights, not Wheelturns, away. And most of all, he did not say that Runacar must die. The Otherfolk did not kill as casually as the Children of Stars did; let this Child of Stars find his own way in the world, and his own fate. Leutric had much to do, now that the last sign had come, and he went off to do it.
And three moonturns later, Runacar came to him again.
* * *
Leutric was constantly on the move, seeing what must be seen, giving tasks to those who would accept them. When he found that Runacar had followed his track, Leutric was mildly surprised to find him still alive, for just because Leutric did not choose to order his death, few of the Otherfolk had any great love for the Children of Stars. But then he remembered that Keloit had seemed fond of him—and Keloit’s mother, Frause, was a great Spellmother. Perhaps she had been sent a vision. Perhaps it was simple kindness. Perhaps it was wholly an accident that the Child of Stars still lived.
But Leutric was curious, and so he sent for him.
* * *
Runacar stood before Leutric in the center of Alqualanya Flower Forest, where Leutric sat upon a stone to hold court. By now Leutric’s people had seen the inside of many of the great buildings of the Children of Stars, so Leutric understood that his own place of rule would look to the Elven Prince like nothing more than a forest glade. So be it. Leutric was King-Emperor, and Runacar had come seeking speech with him. Leutric would hear what was to be said.
“You’re fighting a war,” Runacar said.
“That much should be obvious even to you,” Leutric rumbled. “This was our place before it was yours. You took it from us once. We will not let you take it a second time.”
“Forgive me, lord King-Emperor, but I did not say what I meant,” Runacar answered. “You’re fighting a war badly.”
“‘Badly?’” Leutric asked. “We’re winning.”
“You’re losing,” Runacar said flatly. “Your people are scattered from here to Greythunder Glairyrill. You build towns that a child could sack. Keloit
says you mean to take the Western Shore away from Daroldan and Amrolion, and in the next breath he tells me that all you’re doing is driving them away from Delfierarathadan.”
“And we will drive them into the sea,” Leutric said. He was more curious than affronted.
“No,” Runacar said. “You won’t. What will happen is this: Damulothir Daroldan will make common cause with Leopheine Amrolion, if he hasn’t already. Leopheine will bring his people north—I would; the Kashadabadshar is nothing to have at your back when you are besieged—and together they will fight. If they must, they will go north, through the Medharthas, around Delfierarathadan, and come into the west.”
He waited expectantly.
“And they’ll be gone from the Shore,” Leutric said. “That is victory.”
“No,” Runacar said. “That is a skirmish. Two War Princes, with all their households, with all their array, with every single one of their folk, will gather what’s left of the West behind them faster than you can imagine. They will call for aid, if they have not already, and the High King will send it, for they have been her vassals from the beginning, and she will not stay in the east forever. And when she comes, you will not face a hundred armies more interested in fighting each other than fighting you. You will face one army, King-Emperor Leutric. One army with one mind and one voice, an army made not of komen, but of every one of her people.” He stopped speaking, looking as if he were overcome by the sense of his own words. “What will you do then?” he added at last.
Leutric thought of a hundred things he might say. That day may never come. That day is far in the future. The Red Harvest will bring an end to such foolishness. But instead he said: “Why do you come to say these things to me?”
“I like being on the losing side,” Runacar said bitterly, staring at the ground. Then he raised his head to gaze into Leutric’s eyes. “Your people don’t know how to fight a war. Mine do. I do. If there is one thing that is still true, it is this: I know how to make war. I can teach you. With my help, you can win—whatever victory means to you.”
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