Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  The tearing-silk sound of arrows cut through the night, followed by screams of knights and horses, as the Woodwose archers loosed, killing every single one.

  * * *

  It was dawn by the time the war band rejoined the rest of their people at Araglion. The whole war band then swung north, on a salient that would lead them across Farcarinon to Ullilion’s bounds. There had been no casualties and few injuries, most minor. Enough to slow them, but not by much. They went on until midday, when they found a Flower Forest and were granted permission to enter. By then, the reports from the Woodwose scouts trailing the war band had come back: there had been no pursuit.

  Not that pursuit had been likely. Who could Hamphuliadiel send? They’d just killed his komen, and guardsmen on palfreys were very little threat: an Elven destrier might stand against a Gryphon, and perhaps a Bearward. A lesser beast would not.

  The mood among Runacar’s war band was jubilant, if confused. For himself, Runacar was simply glad to stop walking. War should not be conducted afoot.

  “I don’t see why we didn’t just kill all of them,” Pelere said. “We could have.” She handed him a steaming tankard filled with a mixture of tea and mulled ale. Runacar didn’t think he’d ever get used to the taste, but it was hot.

  “Yes,” Runacar said patiently. “But this was a test of strength, not a massacre.”

  “So you said,” Pelere answered. “I still don’t see why.”

  “Audalo!” Runacar called. “Why didn’t we kill everyone at the Sanctuary?”

  “Because you’re afraid of your gods?” the Minotaur asked, shouldering his way over to Runacar and Pelere.

  “They love blood and death,” Runacar said. “And if They cared enough to strike you down, you’d have been gone a long time ago.”

  Audalo laughed, a deep booming sound, and shook his great head. “Your gods fear the Great Bull, Rune. And the Herdsman. And King Wind.”

  “I doubt it,” Runacar said. “I think your gods have as little interest in us as mine do—in giving either of us victory, at least. But tell me, Audalo. We’ve attacked. What happens now?”

  “Now they cry out for help,” Audalo said. “But no help will come, for your great army is far away.”

  “And the High King seems to have other wars to fight,” Runacar said. “If Hamphuliadiel calls, all that will answer him are those ancient pensioners who did not ride with the Grand Array and whom we have not driven east. We have slain those komen he’s already drawn to him, and as I thought, there were not many. But now he’ll do his best to build an army. And he’ll keep it close.”

  Pelere smiled. “He will not send his army to the Shore.”

  “No,” Runacar said. “He won’t. He’ll protect the Sanctuary. If we raid them every few moonturns, as we did tonight, they’ll always stay close. And once we clear the West from Farcarinon to the Angarussa, we can attack the Shore.”

  “Not the Sanctuary?” Tanet asked, walking into the clearing. He had a tankard in his hand and a loaf of bread under his arm. He tore it in half and gave one piece to Pelere; she tore her portion in half and shared it with Runacar. Tanet made a face.

  “No one holds the Sanctuary in vassalage, but the High King holds Amrolion and Daroldan. If she does not send aid when they call, her oath to them is broken, and they are no longer her vassals,” Runacar said. “That is a rebellion she cannot afford.”

  “She sent them Lightborn,” Audalo pointed out.

  “Wheelturns ago,” Runacar answered. “We need to know what she will do now. And if she does not come … The Shore will become an anvil, and we the hammer. And Hamphuliadiel will be the blade caught between us.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  HARVEST MOON: THE RED HARVEST

  Even as we reckon time, our history is long—so long its beginnings have been worn away by the passage of time. Long before Man came to be, we were. It could be said that our history begins with the Endarkened, for that terrible conflict scoured away all that we had been before it, leaving us one purpose: Survival.

  —Peldalathiriel Caerthalien, Of the Reign of Great Queen Vieliessar

  A new War Prince lit the pyre that consumed their predecessor’s body and held a feast in the Great Keep to mark the beginning of their rule, but the new High King could not follow that tradition. Vieliessar’s predecessor had been dust for thousands of years and Vieliessar had been High King from the moment Ivrulion died. She’d taken the oaths of her War Princes already, and all she need do now was rule them.

  But it was also true that it was proper to mark the end and the beginning, and so she would do in the sight of all what she’d sworn she would do from the first. The daughters of her people had flown their kites in Flower Moon, the sons of her people had leapt the fire in Fire Moon, and in Harvest Moon Vieliessar would take her seat upon the Unicorn Throne of Amretheon Aradruiniel in the sight of all her folk.

  There was no great hall vast enough to contain the multitude that wished to witness this day. The Enthroning would be outside, in the great plaza. And afterward, Vieliessar would hold Harvest Court beneath the open sky to reassure her people that not all things were to be new.

  Let us hope it will not be as exciting as the last Harvest Court Lord Thoromarth held, Vieliessar thought wryly. It seemed as if that day had happened in some other lifetime, but it was just two Wheelturns since she had taken Oronviel and began the road to the Unicorn Throne.

  The last eight moonturns had been as full of work as the Wheelturns she’d spent fighting to do all Amretheon had asked of her. Not only the struggle to survive, and feed, and shelter her folk in a land that had lain deserted for ten thousand turns of the Wheel of the Year, but the work of undoing much of what her victory had created. Vieliessar’s army had spent the summer fighting ardently to bring order to Houses that were already sworn to her.

  If the whole of ten Windsward Houses and Shanilya Thadan, War Prince of the Arzhana, hadn’t come through the Nantirworiel Pass the moment it was passable, the task would have been impossible. But now the bones of a new city rose up in the shadows of the old one, and for the first time since she had ridden forth from Oronviel to war, Vieliessar slept within stone walls and beneath a stone roof. Harvest Court and her enthronement would celebrate true victory and not its faint reflection.

  * * *

  “Just think; once you’re done with this bit of nonsense, your War Council—and everyone else—can start badgering you about who you should marry,” Annobeunna said, sliding yet another jeweled bead into place and fixing it with a drop of alchemical gold. Annobeunna and her attendants had roused Vieliessar before dawn to begin the process of dressing her for Court. Every inch of her body had been scrubbed and painted and perfumed as her impatience grew and her temper shortened. At last Annobeunna had sent the others away, announcing she would finish the High King’s preparations alone. “Oh, hold still! You’d find this much easier if you didn’t wear your hair as short as a Landb— as short as a Lightborn’s. You’ll have to get used to courtly finery sooner or later. You’ve won, now you have to reign.”

  Vieliessar snorted rudely and said nothing. She and Annobeunna were alone in the single room that must serve Vieliessar as bedroom and dining hall and presence chamber until the whole of the new Keep was ready. Though it was small, its walls were hung with silk and its floors laid with rich carpets—as befit the High King—and when Vieliessar walked through the door, she would do so garbed not as Lightsister or komen or general of armies, but as High King. Every stitch and jewel must reflect that power.

  “I haven’t won yet,” Vieliessar said after a few moments of silence.

  Next springtide—she had said to her War Council, and would say again today in the sight of all—she would send her army to relieve the Western Shore, and go herself to the Sanctuary of the Star to settle matters with Hamphuliadiel. Here in Celenthodiel, she meant to create a Sanctuary of the Sword to match the Sanctuary of the Star, where any who wished, regardless of birth, would be trained
in the arts of battle by the best Warlords and Swordmasters of her people.

  But even as she shaped these thoughts, she knew they were empty fantasies, a child’s wistful hopes of what might be. The victory she celebrated today was a lie. I haven’t won at all. The Unicorn Throne had never been her goal. Nor was it now. “While Darkness breeds in lands unknown and marshals armies bought with blood…” She had fought not to gain a throne, but to gain an army. The Fortunate Lands’ greatest battle was still to come. And I do not know how long I have until that day. The candlemarks of my days are filled with pledges and plowing and lawgiving! I build a city and I do not know if I will ever live in it.

  “Of course you’ve won,” Annobeunna said chidingly as she paused to inspect her work. “You hold the West, the Shore, the Uradabhur, and the Arzhana. Soon they will prosper and flourish once more. What more is there?”

  “Haldil,” Vieliessar said grumpily.

  For a little more time she would be able to hold her people ready for battle. Gonceivis had given her that, little though he might wish to aid her. After the coming turn of the Wheel of the Year, they would have one last War Season. She would take Haldil’s so-called Windsward Kingdom; she could send Rithdeliel to do that, while she led the rest of the army west for the final relief of the Western Shore. She could winter in Caerthalien Great Keep, if she chose, a final triumph.

  And what then?

  “P’fft,” Annobeunna said. “You fret because a handful of Windsward Houses haven’t sworn to you? They will. They just want to see if somebody’s going to kill you first. Gonceivis will sue for peace at the Midwinter Truce. Mark my word on this.”

  It doesn’t matter whether he does or not, Vieliessar thought mutinously. For Wheelturns she’d always known what she must do next. Unriddle the Prophecy. Escape the Sanctuary. Become a knight. Become a prince. Become a King. Now she didn’t know what came next. And she was afraid.

  It was moonturns without counting since she’d been afraid.

  * * *

  The time of the morning meal at Caerthalien was a good candlemark away and the Great Hall was empty except for those bound for the Sanctuary of the Star. When young Varuthir saw Ladyholder Glorthiachiel, she hoped for reprieve; when Glorthiachiel beckoned her over, she was certain it had come. But the words Ladyholder Glorthiachiel spoke to her instead were as sharp and painful as a swordblow.

  “So, today you leave us and my vengeance is complete. You are the last of House Farcarinon. Fare you well, Vieliessar Farcarinon,” Lady Glorthiachiel said mockingly. “And live a long, long time.”

  The geasa compelled her to walk sedately and silently to the bay palfrey that would carry her to imprisonment and exile, but inside she was screaming in rage and fear. What would become of her? What would happen to her now?

  * * *

  “What?” Vieliessar asked vaguely. She hadn’t been listening.

  Annobeunna laughed. “I see I should have been asking you for lands and honors rather than speaking of your victories to come! But truly, my lord: you have won.”

  “I’m glad you’re confident,” Vieliessar grumbled.

  “You’re thinking entirely too much for a day of celebration,” Annobeunna said, holding a transparent silken veil gently in place as she settled the narrow band of elvensilver Vilya blossoms over it. “Well, I’ve done all I can for you. When I swore fealty to you, it was to fight, not to be your Mistress of Robes. Just try not to look as if you’ve mislaid your sword and are wondering where your horse and armor are.”

  Vieliessar got carefully to her feet. “Annobeunna, you know that today I reward those who aided me,” she began slowly. The War Princes who had sworn to her had lost much—wives and husbands, children, friends, wealth and lands and even—some of them—their lives. But Annobeunna had lost Keindostibaent twice over, for her Consort Prince Vithantael had taken her throne from her when she had announced she would pledge to Vieliessar, and then Keindostibaent had been turned to a ghostlands by the Winter War. Vieliessar would not favor her friends and battle companions above her former enemies. But she wanted her gifts to her friends to be richer, in her care if not in their cost.

  “And your enemies as well, just to confuse them,” Annobeunna said firmly, cutting off Vieliessar’s next words. “And to keep your promise that you wouldn’t buy the Unicorn Throne with rich gifts to those who helped you to it. But you owe more to the dead than to the living. When you can figure out how to pay that debt, you must let me know. Now come. Your people wait to be astonished by you.”

  Vieliessar got to her feet, careful and a little awkward in the elaborate gown. She had worn such garb so few times in her life that she could count them upon her fingers, and she could not say which she missed more: the cool heavy sweep of a Lightborn’s robes about her ankles, or the weight of a sword at her hip.

  In the outer chamber, Helecanth waited. Of everyone gathered here, only Rithdeliel and Helecanth—her Champion and the captain of her personal guard—bore swords; today Vieliessar’s guard was for honor only. Two twelves of her people waited to escort her to the Unicorn Throne, but of those in armor, three had once been the most notorious bandits and mercenaries in the west, one was the Landbond-born leader of her Lawspeakers, and one was the Lightborn commander of the Warhunt Mages. Her honor guard was made up of all of her people, Lord and Landbond, Craftworker and Commonborn.

  “My lord, you truly bear the semblance of kingship,” Rithdeliel said, bowing.

  Vieliessar inclined her head. She didn’t know what kingship should look like. No one did. All she could do was hope Amretheon had left her enough time to learn it.

  Mistress Maeredhiel would have laughed to see this day, Thurion said silently, meeting her eyes. He did not speak the words aloud, but True Speech brought them to her clearly.

  Yes. She would have, Vieliessar thought sadly. You were my first teacher, Maeredhiel. And the first to tell me the whole of my true heritage. Pelashia grant you knowledge of the tapestry you have woven.

  “My lord King,” Helecanth said. “Your people await you.”

  “You have all brought me here to this day,” she said quietly, letting her gaze fall upon each of her escort in turn. “You as much as any here, Lord Ivaloriel, Lord Sedreret.”

  Ivaloriel Telthorelandor bowed minutely. Sedreret Aramenthiali kept his face a careful blank.

  “It is time to begin,” Rithdeliel said.

  Vieliessar nodded, and Helecanth opened the outer door.

  Sunlight struck bright fire from the jewels and silks of the nobles who lined the path, but among them, standing as equals, were her commonfolk, splendid in the richer softer glow of wool and linen. The carpet beneath her feet was green and silver, its design of running unicorns taken from the carving on the walls of the Fireheart Pass. The air was filled with the scent of flowers, and the sky was flawlessly blue.

  Her people filled the plaza all the way to the wall of the pass. Some had climbed the steps that led to Amretheon’s city to get a better view: the whole of the staircase was filled with people. As many as could be physically present had come. All wished to say to their children and their great-children: I was there upon the day the High King took her throne.

  They greeted her with silence rather than cheers, as if she were something so new and unknown that all they could do was stare. And if a candlemark hence there would be a return to plotting and scheming, this moment was the fulfillment of a wondertale.

  Aradreleg stepped out in front of her. The Lightborn’s green robes were the precise shade of the carpet beneath her feet. Aradreleg began to pace forward slowly: the High King’s Chief Lightborn leading the High King into court. Vieliessar counted six steps and followed, matching her pace to Aradreleg’s. She concentrated on walking slowly and ceremoniously. Maeredhiel had taught her that: the serene graceful gait of the Sanctuary servant.

  “If you’re going to run, girl, never do it where someone can see.”

  I won’t, Maeredhiel. I promise.


  Behind her, she heard the rustle and chime as her escort followed, pacing slowly behind her. Helecanth first. Behind Helecanth, Thurion and Tunonil. She had given her Landbond councillor pride of place and refused to listen to the wrangling and arguments among the War Princes about who would walk behind him. It did not matter. She would dedicate her life to building a world in which it did not matter.

  In the distance, the Unicorn Throne awaited her, raised up upon a long platform set with chairs of state. The thousand steps that would bring her to it were only the last steps of a journey she’d been making every day of her life—as Varuthir, as Vieliessar, as Vieliessar Lightsister, Vieliessar Farcarinon, Vieliessar Oronviel, High King Vieliessar. She walked it in silence. A few times someone began to cheer, but the sound of their lone unaccompanied voice made them quickly silent. It seemed as if this moment was too strange, too holy, to be marred with blatant celebration.

  She reached the dais. Here, her Law Lords in their tabards of blue and gold lined an open space to hold back the crowd and to make a place where her petitioners would be able to approach when Court began. Behind them stood her Lightborn, a second line of protection. Aradreleg had stopped at the foot of the steps, waiting for Vieliessar to ascend.

  Blessed Pelashia, let her not forget her skirts—!

  Aradreleg’s thought was so heartfelt that it broke through the background hum of thoughts as Vieliessar reached her side. She wanted to smile reassuringly, but it was almost as if she had forgotten how. She had bowed before the weight of Prophecy like a sapling in a storm for as long as she could remember: now its weight upon her shoulders was so heavy her limbs trembled with the strain.

  Three steps. Vieliessar gathered her skirts carefully and stepped up. Now she stood before the Unicorn Throne, and for a moment she could not move. It was as if she confronted some living presence, a power beyond her own to which she must offer fealty. Such a little thing for so many to die for. Then she turned, careful of her skirts and her veil, and took a half-step backward, silently letting out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.