And so, when the flying creature appeared in the sky, Ivaloriel ceased to wait. He rose to his feet with all the others, but as they wondered and argued, he moved.
Off the back of the dais. The Law-Lords and the Lightborn parted to let him pass. The front ranks were a tight-packed mass, but further back there were pathways between them, just as if all this mingled folk were an army on parade, and he began to run. He gave no warning as he passed; there would be panic soon enough, and speed was essential. Let those who saw him think the High King had sent him upon some urgent errand; it would explain his haste. Through the Bond he could feel Edheleorn’s worry and confusion; a Bond was nothing that would allow more, but he matched her emotions with his own. She would know what to do.
At least she was near.
If this had been Telthorelandor, his next actions would be obvious. But there were no gates to seal, no walls to defend—there was not so much as a manor house or a border tower here: they still lived in the pavilions they had taken to war. The city on the spire was too far to reach. But he had planned. Not for this, but for disaster. Treachery, war—it did not matter. It was inevitable. He had moved Telthorelandor’s encampment as far down the valley as he could without raising questions.
What a pity most of its folk were gathered here.
The commonborn moved quickly out of his way. The Lords Komen did not, but there were few of them so far distant from the Throne, and those who had elected distance over a blatant show of loyalty were gathered by House.
Behind him he heard screams. He did not look back. He could question the survivors later. He would lead his komen in support of the High King as he was sworn to do. But he was sworn merely to follow her orders, not to anticipate them. When she arrived to give them, he would be ready.
It began to rain.
The crowd was moving at last, a tidal beast with a multitude of limbs and very little mind. To make his way through it was harder now, but finally Ivaloriel reached a place where there were only scattered groups of people. Some had brought food and drink to make their own festival. Now they milled uncertainly, unable to see what was going on, not even certain anything was going on.
“To the Flower Forest!” he said urgently. “Go there at once!”
They were not his folk, but they were commonborn, trained to obey. Some began to move at once. Others stood their ground defiantly.
Let them.
Tildorangelor was an ancient forest. It held one of the Ancient Shrines. It had stood untouched for a thousand lifetimes. It was the only shelter there was. He could only hope Edheleorn reached it as well, for their lives were in one another’s hands.
* * *
Thurion was too exhausted to cast Door again, but with Tildorangelor’s power to draw upon, Vieliessar could do it easily.
She did not.
To simply appear in the place from which she had been taken would place her in the thick of the fighting. Each element of an army moves as if it is one body, and all the elements which make up an army move as one body as well. When a single komen is a single body and nothing more, the army is merely a mob doomed to defeat. Arilcarion had written those words, and it was not until this moment she’d truly understood them. Even if she returned to the battlefield, her army would be a disjointed puppet. They would not know where she was. She could not command them. And no one—even she—knew the nature of their enemy.
She must have more information before she fought.
“The Lightborn camp still stands, does it not?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” Aradreleg said slowly. “After Rondithiel Lightbrother’s embassy left for the Western Shore, you never ordered us to return to our households.”
“You knew I would not,” Vieliessar said. She took a deep breath, the weight of rule settling over her shoulders once again. “And it lies near the edge of Tildorangelor, and from there we may see … what is.” She did not know Tilinaparanwira’s location within the Flower Forest. Perhaps Thurion had explored enough to find it. Perhaps he had merely sensed it when he set his spell. But she could find the Lightborn camp easily.
Annobeunna stepped over to Vieliessar, the High King’s discarded sword in her hands.
“Mark this place well, both of you,” Vieliessar said to the Lightborn. “We will need it soon. I think only the Starry Hunt can save us from what has come.”
“Are these the vanguard?” Thurion asked, coming toward her. “Does a larger force follow?”
Vieliessar laughed jaggedly as she sheathed her sword. “You know Amretheon’s Prophecy as well as I! But I know one thing more,” she added. “We can survive this day. And we can win.”
Thurion stopped in his tracks. “How can you say that?” he demanded. Astonishment warred with hope in his voice.
“Because Amretheon could not warn me about them if they had never come before. And so they must have. And we are still here. Now come.”
She held out her hands. Annobeunna took one, and Aradreleg the other. Aradreleg held out her free hand to Thurion, who clasped it gingerly. Vieliessar summoned Door. As she did, she could feel the ripples in Tildorangelor’s Light. Somewhere her Lightborn were fighting.
One step, two, and they stood in the middle of the Lightborn encampment.
Shouts of terror greeted their arrival. She heard the rasp of a drawn blade, and drew her own in reflex.
“No!” Annobeunna said, stepping in front of her. “It is the High King! She lives!”
They stopped. Annobeunna was still in her courtly finery, easy to recognize.
The people approached at the sound of Annobeunna’s voice. One of them rushed to Thurion and flung his arms around him. Denerarth. He is Thurion’s friend.
Everyone began talking at once, demanding answers. Orders. Vieliessar raised her hand for silence, but it was slow in coming. She looked around. It was less than a quartermark since the attack had begun. There were perhaps two dozen people here—no Lightborn, since she had called them all to help keep order—but some of the Lightless who lived among them had stayed behind. More people were moving through the trees toward them. She saw one of her Law-Lords and a few of her lesser nobles. No Lightborn. None of her council.
“Take up all you can easily carry, and quickly,” she said, gesturing at the camp. “Thurion, Aradreleg, lead them as deep into the forest as you can.”
“Where do we go?” Aradreleg asked instantly.
“Toward the Shrine. Go as far as you can. I will find you,” Vieliessar answered. “Stop for nothing, and do not turn back.”
“I will not leave you,” Annobeunna said instantly.
“You will stay here and direct everyone who comes to follow Aradreleg,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Who among you here can tell me what is happening?”
“I saw.” A young noble stepped toward her. “Beregur of Niothramangh, my lord.” He wore festal garb in the red and yellow of House Niothramangh; his cloak brooches showed Niothramangh’s three red foxes. “I was late—my servants—”
“What did you see?”
“Winged— Beastlings with wings—out of the sky—killing without swords—the Lightborn could not stop them—”
More survivors arrived. They were ragged, disheveled, bruised. Some were bloody—not as if they were wounded, but as if they had bathed in blood. All looked terrified.
The Lightborn camp was being looted in haste. Tents toppled. Some people began to fight.
“Stop!” Vieliessar shouted, raising her sword. “There’s no time for this! Go!” She turned back to Beregur and Annobeunna. “Keep order here,” she commanded, handing Annobeunna her sword.
“Where are you going?” Annobeunna demanded, her voice tight with fear.
“To see,” Vieliessar said. She pulled off the pieces of armor she’d managed to don in the chaos, and handed her chain mail shirt to Beregur.
“You cannot risk yourself,” Annobeunna said, eyes blazing.
“I’ve already risked all of you,” Vieliessar answered sh
arply. “Follow my orders.”
Annobeunna opened her mouth to protest. Vieliessar cast Cloak over herself and walked away, invisible. Behind her, she heard Annobeunna shouting for her to return, calling to Thurion and Aradreleg to find her.
Vieliessar broke into a run. There was no time to argue. She hoped the Flower Forest was a true refuge, and not merely the illusion of one.
The folk who entered the Flower Forest ran like hunted stags, sprawling as they tripped on branches, colliding with trees they did not see in their terror. They were a tiny fraction of those who had gathered to see her enthroned; commonfolk and Landbonds, those who would have been toward the back of the gathering. Vieliessar headed directly south to get out of their way, but there were people entering the forest at every point and she spent much of her energy dodging them. At last she shed her spell of concealment—no one would recognize her—and moved forward warily. This far toward the edge of the forest, she could tell that the storm she had ordered had stopped: she did not know whether this was a good omen or a bad one. She could still feel the Light rippling around her as her Lightborn fought.
But against what enemy? Her heart told her this was the vanguard of Amretheon’s “Darkness,” but she had seen only a handful of the creatures, and that was hardly enough to have set in motion all the architecture of the Prophecy. No matter how powerful they were, they could be killed. Her people had slain Aesalions, Gryphons, Minotaurs, and all were formidable quarry. The Bearwards had shamanesses whose spells were as powerful as the Lightborns’ own.
We will win. We must.
She was still too deep within the forest to see the open space beyond, but its sounds came to her clearly. They were … wrong. She knew the sound of the battlefield. This was nothing like it. There was no clangor of swords, nor sound of horns. Only the frantic shouting of a mob.
In her mind, she assembled a map of Celenthodiel. Tildorangelor Flower Forest was vast, beginning near the great plaza. It extended all the way to the curtain wall on its northern side, and they had not yet found its western boundary. The pavilion encampments in which most of her folk still lived were set along the eastern and southern boundaries of it.
She’d never thought she would have to fight in Celenthodiel itself.
Even if the komen can reach their tents and arm, they cannot ride. There are only a few thousand destriers here. The rest are pastured, or run free for lack of stabling and servants to care for them. Those who fight, fight on foot. There is no castel to retreat to against this save one.
Tildorangelor itself.
The Enemy had not followed them into it; she must believe it was safe. Her new city was only half built and indefensible; Celephriandullias was a ruin—and the enemy had wings. But desperate folk might do anything, including risk the long exposed climb up the winding stair. And perhaps they would lure the enemy toward it. As the thought entered her mind, she realized she had made her plan of battle. Today was not a day to fight. Today was a day to retreat. She must save as much of the army—of her people—as she could.
Vieliessar stepped from the cover of the trees. The ground was sodden with blood and churned to mud. It was littered with bodies—some bearing the wounds of claws, some trampled by those who fled. She could smell smoke. The Fireheart Gate was jammed with folk trying to escape: over it the winged things soared and wheeled like monstrous birds of prey. They dove, over and over, into the mass of bodies, rising up each time with one or two in their grasp. They soared into the sky, holding them.
And then they dropped them.
She could see two more creatures above the city on the spire. The staircase was crowded with people. As they struggled to climb to safety, the creatures dove at them, causing hundreds to fall with each pass they made.
She took in the sight with a single despairing glance as she prepared her spell.
Call.
A simple spell. Every Lightborn knew it. But what could be used to summon sheep and goats could summon people as well.
If I am wrong, and Tildorangelor is no sanctuary …
She dared not doubt.
She sent forth her spell. In her mind, she held the image of the Shrine deep within the forest. The place to which her magic called her people.
Suddenly she was snatched into the air.
“Pretty,” her attacker cooed. Its talons sheared through the aketon that was all she wore, piercing the flesh beneath. “Pretty little Elfling magician. Pretty toy.”
Bile surged up in Vieliessar’s throat and she fought to keep from choking. She was cut off from the Light. The heartbeat of the world no longer coursed through her veins. The creature’s touch was profanity.
Darkness.
She struggled in its grasp. With each beat of its wings, it flew higher. There was no escape. A fall from this height would kill.
“Who are you?” she gasped, though even speech was agony. “What do you want?”
For a moment a look almost of surprise crossed the creature’s face. “You are strong,” it said. “Your death will be long and glorious. Arzhugdu of the Endarkened promises you this.”
For a single instant, a petty and ludicrous irritation at the misleading poetry of The Song of Amretheon swept aside all other thoughts. Amretheon hadn’t been trying to warn his descendants against darkness. He’d been trying to warn them against these creatures who called themselves the Endarkened.
And if Vieliessar could not manage to survive this moment, that warning would be in vain.
Arzhugdu did not seem to expect her to struggle, and for the moment she seemed to want Vieliessar alive. Vieliessar hung limp in the Endarkened’s grasp, gathering her will against the miasma of foulness that surrounded her.
Retreat. It was the plan of today’s battle, the only hope of living to fight another. But how? Already the peaks of the mountains were below her, and the air was sharp and thin. Vieliessar was no eagle, to take flight if she broke free.
There was one hope. And it was a thing she must do in a heartbeat, or fail. Door. But even if she could cast the spell, her captor must be made to move through it. And that meant Arzhugdu must fall.
She arched her back and swung her legs up, though her chilled muscles screamed in protest. She kicked with all her strength. It was little enough, but the blow disrupted the rhythm of Arzhugdu’s wingbeats. The Endarkened rolled through the air, diving to regain speed. It was a maneuver Vieliessar had seen a thousand times as she watched birds soar above a battlefield.
It was enough.
Door.
Suddenly sky was replaced by trees. Captor and captive struck the ground with bruising force.
Arzhugdu shrieked in agony and released her. Vieliessar scrambled away. The Shrine was just behind her. Vieliessar dragged herself to the center stone, clutching at the standing stones for support. Her blood smeared them, and she wept, helplessly, because Tilinaparanwira was screaming. She felt her heart slow with each beat, as if her life and Arzhugdu’s had been bound together. She saw the creature’s skin crack and blister. Leaves fell like rain as the trees around them withered. Arzhugdu sprang at her, but the Endarkened’s movements were spastic, disjointed. Arzhugdu’s yellow eyes stared sightlessly as she flailed. Her feet left bloody prints in the grass, and the living soil beneath it turned to lifeless dust.
“Elfling!” Arzhugdu shrieked. “You will spend a thousand years begging to die!”
In another moment the Endarkened would seize her. To cast Door over such a distance had taken all she had to give; Vieliessar had no strength left with which to fight. Arzhugdu was dying, but she would manage to live long enough to end Vieliessar’s life. Even the Shrine itself would not be enough protection to keep that from happening. Blackness crept in at the edges of Vieliessar’s vision, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She could no longer feel the stone beneath her knees.
Then Arzhugdu screamed more loudly than before, and her cry held, not rage, but terror.
Vieliessar forced herself to see.
; For a glorious impossible moment she was certain she had died without knowing. Before her stood the creature she had glimpsed only once before.
The Unicorn.
It was the living form of the creature her ancestors had carved into the Plaza fountain, had enchained in the carving of the Unicorn Throne. It shone with a silvery iridescent radiance that seemed to emanate from its thick feather-soft fur. It had a long slender neck like a deer’s, but a mane roached and bristling like a plow horse’s. Its tufted tail lashed like a cat stalking prey. The last time she had seen it, she had been spellbound by its beauty. This time she was transfixed with as much terror as love. Its spiral horn glowed as red as forge-heated iron, and she had barely registered its presence before it launched itself directly at the Endarkened.
“Don’t—” she gasped. In that moment, she would have given her life to protect it from harm.
Then its horn touched Arzhugdu, and the Endarkened fell dead. The foulness of that presence was instantly wiped away. It was a relief as great as healing, a pure uprush of goodness to offset the horrors of this terrible day. And as consciousness left her, Vieliessar heard a voice where no voice could be, speaking words that made no sense to her.
“He said there were more of us. Surprise.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HARVEST MOON: THE BEGINNING OF THE GREAT SILENCE
When the Darkness was revealed at last, we did not know how to fight it, for who can fight what they cannot understand? It was not an enemy that wanted what we had: It was an enemy who wanted no one to have anything.
—Thurion Pathfinder, A History of the High King’s War
The Endarkened had not been meant to create life—that had been the work of King Virulan’s great spell, the first sorcery any of the Endarkened had worked. Even though they were now male and female, they did not spawn as the beasts of the Bright World did.
Once the spark of life was kindled in an Endarkened womb, it drew its mother’s magic to itself, feeding upon it. Such a process was normally a slow one, spanning centuries, but with enough pain and fear to feed upon, a new Endarkened could go from spark to squalling newborn in the blink of an eye—and here, today, there were both pain and fear in unimaginable quantity. Endarkened after Endarkened had to break away from the slaughter to fly with swollen, gravid body back to Obsidian Mountain to expel their burden.
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