She was seated upon the Unicorn Throne.
The stone of the unicorn’s chained necks was hot under her hands, the Throne itself was hard and smooth beneath her hands and body. Not a comfortable seat; it seemed more as if she bore its weight than that it bore hers. If the weight of rule, as she had learned, was a heavy one, then the weight of kingship was heavier. Both she and her people must learn to bear it.
Now she could see the order of those who followed her. She held her face still with an effort, wondering by what threats, bribes, and miracles of trickery Sedreret had been induced to walk at Nadalforo’s side. When Helecanth reached Aradreleg, they stepped up together, each taking her place behind Vieliessar’s throne.
The cheering began at last, spreading back through the crowd from those who could see clearly, growing louder as it spread. It went on as her council took their places behind her. Rithdeliel grinned at her as he moved past her. Thurion seemed dazed with relief. In a moment more, Aradreleg would step forward and Harvest Court would begin.
The cheering began slowly to die, but at the same time its quality changed. No, Vieliessar realized, it isn’t that. Those facing and flanking the Throne cheered as before. But those crowds gathered behind the dais had stopped.
“What are those?” Annobeunna demanded, just loud enough for Vieliessar to hear. She was looking skyward, and sounded more annoyed than anything else.
“Not Beastlings,” Thurion answered, sounding confused.
“Thank you, Green Robe. If you’d like to tell me everything they aren’t, we can occupy ourselves through Midwinter,” Annobeunna said tartly.
Vieliessar rose to her feet. The northern sky had been stainless blue and empty when she had ascended to the dais. It was still blue, but no longer empty. Through it came a flock of creatures too large to be birds, their wings ribbed and leathery. She knew of no winged Beastling with a shape so like a Trueborn’s. Nothing with great ribbed wings and a long barbed tail.
None with skin the color of blood.
“Clear the court!” Vieliessar shouted. “Sound the call to arms!”
But it was too late. She felt a tide of foulness rising, a terrible echo of Ivrulion’s Banespell. The other Lightborn felt it, too. She could see the horror on their faces.
The first of the fliers folded its wings and dropped into the crowd, too far away for her to see what happened next. The knight-heralds were already relaying her orders, and the sound of horns mingled with the sound of distant screams.
Aradreleg clutched at her arm. “My lord, we must get you—”
“A horse!” Vieliessar snapped. A Fetch-spell summoned her armor to her; she drew the dagger at her belt and began cutting away her gown.
There is no time.
More of the creatures dropped from the sky. The sounds of the horns cut through the shouts and the screams, but there were too many folk packed into too small a space. “Storm!” she shouted to the Lightborn. “We need cover!”
Naked now, she swore and struggled as she thrust herself into her aketon. Annobeunna snatched up her helm and thrust it at her, then grabbed for the chain mail coat. The Vale of Celenthodiel had gone from court to battlefield in a matter of heartbeats, and it was a battlefield Vieliessar did not control. Even retreat was impossible. Only the edges of the crowd had any freedom of movement. The courtiers with her on the dais were leaping down, pushing through the crowd as best they could, trying to clear a space.
The Darkness. This is the Darkness.
Vieliessar was only half-armored when one of the winged things landed in the widening space before the throne. Nausea surged around her with its nearness, making her vision blur for a moment until she fought it back.
Time seemed to stop. The enemy was female. Perhaps half again as tall as Vieliessar was. Her skin was redder than blood, her features a distorted mockery of Elvenkind’s. Her pupilless eyes glowed yellow; enormous ribbed wings arched above her back. In her way, she was beautiful, and that was an abomination, for she radiated something that was the very antithesis of the Light. But worst of all, the creature was jeweled and ornamented as if for a feast. Her long black hair was braided with jewels. There were rings on her talonned fingers. The horns that jutted from her brow and curled back over her skull were gilded. Vieliessar stared, frozen in the horror of the Prophecy’s nebulous warnings made real at last, and saw that the monster’s eyes held more than bloodlust. This was no beast, but something as knowing, as aware, as Vieliessar herself.
We are not ready! Vieliessar thought despairingly, raising her sword.
Helecanth rushed forward, drawing her sword. The woman-thing laughed, wolf teeth gleaming, and batted her aside with a single blow.
“High King,” the woman purred, locking eyes with Vieliessar. “Shurzul bids you welcome to the day of your death.”
Dimly, Vieliessar could still hear the screams rising in pitch as her people became a mob. There would be time later for shock, for horror, to try to make sense of what she saw. She felt the surging tide of Light rise around her as her Lightborn tried to calm the rising panic and Fetched weapons to arm the komen. The pieces of her armor stood scattered about her, but this was not a battle for swords. Vieliessar struck with all her power at Shurzul. Shield to contain her, Fire to burn her, Command to bind her for a killing blow.…
But even as the violet fire of Shield enfolded her, Shurzul laughed. She spread her arms wide, and Shield warped and twisted at her touch. Vieliessar felt the touch of alien sorcery as Shurzul set her power against the Shield, but Vieliessar had all of Tildorangelor to draw upon, and her Shield held. She enveloped Shurzul’s body in flame. The space inside the column of Shield flared torch-bright—
And then both Shield and Fire were gone.
Shurzul’s stood before her, her body covered with molten gold. Her skin was charred and oozing. But it began to heal even as Shurzul shrieked and clawed in pain at her ruined finery. For a moment she was distracted, and Vieliessar felt a savage surge of triumph. If they could be hurt, they could be killed. She raised her sword and started forward, only to fall heavily against the Throne as Rithdeliel shoved her back.
“Rithdeliel!” she shouted in fury, but he was already moving to the attack. Helecanth had regained her feet and was moving forward as well. Shurzul turned to face them.
The light shifted, going coppery and dark as the storm the Lightborn had summoned boiled up over the ridge. The rain struck like another swordblow. Steam rose from Shurzul’s body, washing ash and charred gems from impossibly healing flesh. Vieliessar saw her laugh.
“My lord! Come! You must come now! Vielle!” Thurion clutched at her, shouting in her ear, begging her to run.
I can’t.
Komen in festal dress fought their way toward the Throne, striking down anyone who stood in their path, foe or vassal. There was a clamor of warhorns rising over the screams and the roar of the storm. Some signaled for attack. Some for retreat.
“If you die we all die!” Thurion dragged her backward, behind the Throne, across the dais, and then she was falling—
—falling—
The sudden silence was deafening.
Rain pattered down through the leaves of the forest canopy. She could feel the eternal Springtide of the Flower Forest washing away the taint of Shurzul’s magic. Annobeunna and Aradreleg were behind her; Aradreleg must have sensed Thurion’s spell and dragged Annobeunna through Door with them. They had been the two nearest to Vieliessar and Thurion when it was cast.
Thurion fell to his hands and knees among the wet leaves, gasping. They were in a clearing. At its center were four stones: one large and flat, the other three tall and grouped around it.
“What have you done?” Vieliessar shouted.
“Door—” Thurion gasped. “Flower Forest— Tilinaparanwira—the Shrine—”
Rage filled Vieliessar like the fire she had summoned moments before. She raised her sword. At that moment, she would gladly have made him a sacrifice to Tilinaparanwira, spi
lled his blood upon the stones and made of his death a prayer for victory.
Annobeunna grabbed her sword arm. “No!”
Vieliessar lowered her sword. Annobeunna released her instantly and stepped back.
Thurion raised his head and met her gaze. “Without you we are lost,” he said quietly. “You are the only one who knows what enemy we fight.”
“I know nothing!” Vieliessar cried, flinging her sword away in fury. In this moment, she didn’t care who saw. Annobeunna, Aradreleg—let all the princes of the Hundred Houses witness that nothing—no death, no loss, no betrayal—had prepared her for this moment. She was not ready. Her people were not ready. How could they face an enemy such as this? How could they win? She sank to her knees, terror and shame mingling with her anger. She had abandoned her people to slaughter. “This— This—”
“Then we die,” Aradreleg said quietly. She went to kneel beside Thurion. He pushed himself to his knees, but did not get to his feet. “Because only the Child of the Prophecy can save us,” Aradreleg finished.
Vieliessar wanted to weep. She wanted to scream. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.
“Lead us,” Thurion said.
Vieliessar turned away. The forest around her hushed every sound. She could not hear the sounds of battle.
This is why you were born.
For the last time, she railed against her fate and begged for her freedom. She thought of the creature that had named itself Shurzul. And in that moment, her hope of freedom died forever. She was the Child of the Prophecy. It was for this that Vieliessar Farcarinon had been born.
“Then let us go back,” she said steadily. “And see if I have anything left to lead.”
* * *
He was becoming a connoisseur of hopeless retreats, Rithdeliel decided. He didn’t know whether to bless the rain or curse it. It covered their movements, but it concealed the enemy. We would all be dead by now, if our foe weren’t insane.
He and Helecanth hadn’t slain their attacker. Again and again the two of them had landed what should have been mortal blows—and weren’t. And then the winged woman simply abandoned the fight as if she’d gotten bored. Rithdeliel had dragged himself into concealment with Helecanth as best he could.
The dais was, improbably, still standing, a bare expanse of splintered wood. The ground around it looked like a slaughterhouse. He had thought the plains of Ifjalasairaet after the battle had been the most terrible sight he had ever seen, but the slain that had covered it had died in battle, of honest wounds.
These bodies had been torn apart.
One of the monsters was wallowing in the flesh, so covered in blood and ruined meat that it was difficult to tell what it was.
They’re playing, he thought in horror. This is not a battle to them. This is sport.
The mob was driving itself toward the creature as the people tried to escape. Those at the front, seeing what lay ahead, tried to turn aside, to flee, but the press of bodies behind them made it impossible. The flying woman pounced on them as a dog might pounce on a rat.
Another one—a male—joined her.
And then Rithdeliel saw something that gave him hope.
At the far edges of the fleeing alfaljodthi, folk were running toward the safety of the Flower Forest. In the last half Wheelturn, Vieliessar’s folk had cut down most of the woodland that edged the Flower Forest to build their new city, but of course the Flower Forest had been left untouched. Many of those trying to escape were struck down, to be added to the … playground. But there was an invisible line the creatures did not cross. Even though the escapees were still in plain sight, they chose other targets.
The Flower Forest was sanctuary.
“Helecanth,” he said, his voice a rusty croak. “I have a plan.”
* * *
Sedreret was armed and armored, by his lady mother’s grace. As soon as the fighting began he had found her. Aramenthiali still kept itself as a war camp: he had ordered his vassal komen to armor and to stand to horse for the Enthroning: he could not break his oath of vassalage, but he could show Aramenthiali’s displeasure with the High King’s new ways.
He rode onto the rain-drenched battlefield with a thousand komen behind him, and as he did, he saw a glorious sight. One of the creatures was high in the sky, great wings beating. It clutched two Lightborn in its arms.
As he stared, momentarily fascinated, all three bodies burst into flame. In the next moment, a bolt of lightning sizzled from the clouds above, striking them. And when the flare had passed, there was nothing left.
He shouted with delight. The monsters could be killed. He’d seen it. Soon this annoyance would be swept away, and in its aftermath, dissent and rebellion would find a fertile field. Everyone would ask why the High King had not protected them—and Sedreret Aramenthiali would have answers. It is the Beastlings. They have followed the Windsward Houses here. They have been brought here by Vieliessar. She is your doom. Aramenthiali will save you.
But where was the foe? It must be seen by all that Aramenthiali had ridden eagerly into battle as a force led by its rightful master should. He peered into the storm, searching for the patterns that would tell him where the Beastlings engaged. For a moment he wished he had brought his lady mother with him onto the field: she was Lightborn. It was no violation of the Covenant for her to use her Light against beasts.
But Lady-Abeyant Dormorothon was no komen, to ride to battle on a destrier. The palfreys were wild with fear, and even the destriers were fretful, sidling and dancing as people ran toward them. It was the perfect chance to settle old scores and to clear the path for Aramenthiali ascendance—accidentally, in the press of battle—but Sedreret could not make out any useful targets. With an impatient sigh, he led his meisne in the direction of the Throne. His fleetness and quick thinking had let him reach his encampment before panic had set in, but swift movement was impossible now, even with his komen to clear the way.
“How am I to engage if I cannot find the foe?” he shouted in exasperation.
“I don’t think you’ll find that a problem, little Elfling.”
A table creaked as a body dropped to it from the air. Giant—winged—scarlet-skinned—but far more Elven in appearance than any other Beastling Sedreret had ever seen. And lushly female.
You will make a fine trophy, he thought, and drew his sword.
“I like you,” the creature purred. It sprang forward even as he spurred his destrier to attack. The stallion reared, then shied, and the creature landed on its back. Sedreret’s mount lashed out, trying to dislodge the extra weight. The creature raised a fist and brought it down.
Even over the sound of the rain and the shouting, Sedreret heard the sound of the impact as the blow struck the stallion’s neck. It went down, carrying Sedreret with it. For an instant, he thought the stallion would wallow to its feet again. Then he knew it was dead.
“I’ll be back, darling. Never fear.”
The creature crouched beside him for a moment, furnace eyes glowing and lips twisted in a terrible parody of a smile. It kissed his armored helm, and Sedreret smelled blood on its breath. Then it sprang to its feet and bounded away.
At first he struggled to free himself, but realized it was impossible. He was pinned in the midst of chaos unimaginable. Destriers reared, fighting their riders. The komen who dismounted to protect him never reached him. The creature had armed itself from the weapons of the dead. It held a sword in each hand, and every blow it struck cut off a limb.
Or a head.
“Retreat!” Sedreret cried. His voice cracked. In the tumult of the battle, no one heard.
* * *
“The Flower Forest is safe,” Rithdeliel said, gesturing toward it.
“It is also defended,” Helecanth answered. She stood fully erect. There was no point in trying to hide.
“The enemy is few,” Rithdeliel answered grimly. “They can’t be everywhere. Send enough folk toward the Flower Forest and some will reach sanctuary.”<
br />
“If it is sanctuary,” Helecanth said quietly.
“If it is not, I shall see you this night in the Huntsman’s train,” Rithdeliel said. He raised a hand in salute and turned away.
* * *
Ivaloriel had been War Prince of Telthorelandor since before Serenthon Farcarinon’s father had been born. Since the day Serenthon wed Nataranweiya, the world had been changing, and it seemed only Ivaloriel could see it. Like Serenthon’s, Ivaloriel’s bride was his Bondmate, but unlike Serenthon, he had not set aside a betrothal and strained ancient alliances he would later break: Lady Edheleorn had been born to Telthorelandor, daughter of a distant connection to the throne. As soon as they discovered the Bond, he had gone to his mother and liege-lord to tell her. Morwaenir Telthorelandor sent apologies and gifts to Cirandeiron, and Ivaloriel’s previous betrothal was dissolved before his affianced Cirandeiron bride ever left her own keep. He had wed the woman of his heart and soul, a woman who was his match and his equal in every way. In time his mother had died, and Ivaloriel placed his cool hand upon the web of marriage alliances his sisters and brothers had made, and waited.
Serenthon rose and fell, his alliance a hasty passionate thing easily broken by another alliance. And still Ivaloriel waited, for the daughter lived, and when she rose from her exile at last, she reached for the High Kingship in a way no one had done in ten thousand years.
Neither by alliance nor by force of arms, but by right.
It was a gossamer strand, and she rightly did not rely upon it. But it was there. Even when Vieliessar won, the others did not see what Ivaloriel saw: if one thread of the tapestry she had woven was true, the whole of it was.
Child of the Prophecy. Harbinger of the foe they had awaited since the fall of Celephriandullias—the unknown foe. Ivaloriel could read a scroll as well as anyone: The Song of Amretheon contained nothing more than garbled warnings. If there had been more to know, she would not have been the only one to know it: there were thousands upon thousands of Lightborn in the Fortunate Lands, all trained just as their new High King had once been.
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