All he needed.
Hamphuliadiel forced himself to get to his feet. He walked with unsteady steps toward his bathing chamber. The bath that had been filled last night in anticipation of his return from the Shrine still steamed, scented with fragrant oils. Hamphuliadiel lowered himself into it gratefully, wincing as the hot water laved his battered body.
This was here. This was real. Last night was not. He would rise above darkness and superstition. He would show his people the road leading to a new world free of such moldering beliefs. He was Hamphuliadiel Astromancer, Lord of the Sanctuary of the Star.
It was as simple as that.
And when he had bespelled away every trace of dirt and blood in his chambers and reduced everything it contained to ash, he rang for a servant and demanded the chamber be swept and scoured, and new furnishings brought immediately.
New furnishings … and hot honeyed wine.
* * *
Harwing Lightbrother did not know how long he had been back at the Sanctuary of the Star, or—so the thoughts that lived on the top of his mind told anyone who wished to look, and he knew—down deep where no one could see—that they did look. Frequently.
And so, to all outward and inward eyes, he went on as he always had, a loyal servant of the Astromancer and the Sanctuary. He did not know how the veil over his mind had been ripped asunder, only that on the night the twin colts were sacrificed, he had come back to himself.
And Hamphuliadiel fell ill afterward. No one ever spoke a reason—of course they didn’t—but a rumor was started—somehow, somewhere, as these things always are—that he had valiantly defended us from Beastling sorcery, and taken harm of it.
It wasn’t true, of course. Even if the Beastling sorcerers were to be so rash as to attack Areve and the Sanctuary, they could not possibly strike down someone within the Shrine itself. But that it was a lie—and what that lie concealed—didn’t matter to him. The only thing that mattered to Harwing now was to somehow get close enough to the Astromancer to kill him. And that meant gaining his confidence. Being allowed to join his inner circle. To do that, they must believe in him—and Harwing must believe in himself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THUNDER MOON: A WAR LIKE NO OTHER
Amrolion and Daroldan were bordered on one side by the largest Flower Forest in the Fortunate Lands, and on the other by Great Sea Ocean. Like the Domains of the Arzhana, they did not fight with each other. Like the Domains of the Windsward, they considered themselves always to be embattled. Like the Domains of the Uradabhur, their strength lay in coalition. In truth, they were one Domain, not two, for they both had the same motto: Isterya Adzab: I hold.
—Runacar Warlord, A History of the Western Shore Campaign
Runacar had never imagined presiding over such a substantial battlefield. It stretched along the entire Western Shore from the southern desert to the northern mountains. Such a vast area would be impossible to oversee without a mount a hundred times faster than the swiftest horse ever foaled. Of course he could delegate control of any of these operations to one of the Otherfolk battle leaders—and in practice he did so, for every one of them had once been a member of his war band, and they had learned from him. But if he was to craft the overall strategy of the campaign, he needed to see what he was working with. Reports were not enough.
Even if the Gryphons did not fight, they were the key to the Otherfolk’s victory. The night Radafa took Runacar to see the scope of the blaze in Delfierarathadan was merely the first time they flew together, not the only time. Today, the seventh sunturn after the fire had been set, Radafa and Runacar had flown south again.
The Gryphon-called winds and the Nisse-called rains had made an uneasy alliance. Though one could smell the burning even in the vanguard of the army, both smoke and steam were blown southward by the unfailing wind. The smoke rose up to coat the bellies of the low-hanging rain clouds so that when the hard soaking rain fell, it was black. Where the fire had passed, the rain drenched the grim skeletons of charred trees and glutted the ash-choked mud with moisture until the thick black slurry seeped all the way to the water’s edge, staining the sand and the sea black as well. The contours of the earth itself had been reshaped by furious heat and unremitting rain.
From the black mud to the red sands, there grew no tree, no flower, no blade of grass. The only thing Runacar could think of to compare the burnt-over forest to was the Ghostwood, but that had been white as death. This was as black and wet as a poisoned wound.
Yet despite the rain, the fire still raged, a furious blaze that devoured unimaginable amounts of forest every sunturn and moved as fast as a running horse. What madness could possess a War Prince to despoil their own domain more utterly than even an enemy’s victory could do?
Fear.
Amrolion and Daroldan existed between two vast enclaves of Otherfolk, suffering constant sightings and encroachments by each, and saw themselves as the only defense of the West. Certainly the War Princes would burn Delfierarathadan if it would stop the northward march of something that had never been seen in the Fortunate Lands—an army of Otherfolk. Runacar had never thought much about the Western Shore before this campaign, nor about how its War Princes saw the world. Now, he saw that this information was as vital as anything he had known about the numbers of their komen, or the spells their Lightborn might deploy.
I don’t care what they’re willing to do to win. My job is to make them run.
Radafa circled the desolation, letting Runacar look his fill, then turned north, flying through smoke and steam, the hot wind from below making it easy for him to gain altitude.
This is what Arilcarion tried to save us from. Vieliessar said the Hundred Houses turned war into a game—but if we did, that meant we did not ride to war over the bodies of the helpless.
This was, perhaps, not entirely true—Runacar acknowledged that even in the midst of the thought. But it was certainly more true of the summer wars of the Hundred Houses than of what he was seeing here: a landscape turned to ash and sand and innumerable thousands dead. Ah, but they are only Beastlings, he thought in bitter self-mockery, so where is the harm…?
The jarring thump of Radafa’s landing brought Runacar’s thoughts to the here and now. The Gryphon had landed two leagues ahead of the leading edge of the fire, where the southern contingent of the army was working frantically to evacuate the Brightfolk and the fire-teams were striving to create a swath of barren ground that the fire could not leap. Centaurs, Minotaurs, and Bearwards labored with axes and rope to fell the great trees, even hitching themselves to the fallen trees to drag them clear of the area, as if they were no more than beasts of burden. In the rain, in the mud, it was grueling, back-breaking work.
The moment he and Radafa landed, a couple of Centaurs galloped over, one carrying a waterproof cloak for Radafa. This monsoon rain was certainly not the place for anything with feathers; Runacar felt as if he was standing under a waterfall. He helped Bellor and Randin pull the garment over Radafa’s neck and wings. The Gryphon looked truly miserable, but the two Centaurs looked worse: faces and bodies covered with soot and ash; their faces masks of exhaustion. But still here. And still trying.
“I suppose I don’t have to ask you how things are going?” Runacar said, looking around. He had to raise his voice nearly to a shout to be heard over the roar of the fire and the hiss of the rain.
“If the Stonekin can’t turn the river, you in the north’ll have the fire up your asses in a sennight,” Bellor said. “This is the third firebreak we’ve made, by the Herdsman’s Grace, and it’ll jump this one, too, we think.”
“The … people?” Runacar asked hesitantly.
“We won’t know how many died here for a long time,” Randin said bluntly. “I think most of the Dryads are safe. Anyone who can is running for the waterline or the river—the Ocean’s Own are helping evacuate them at the sea. I can’t say what’s happening at the river.”
Runacar shook his head numbly. He didn’t even kn
ow what questions he should be asking, and he wasn’t sure he’d understand the answers even if he did. A Green Robe might know—but he might as well wish for the power to wave his hand and douse the blaze as wish for Lightborn to fight beside Otherfolk.
“Do you know how soon they can turn the Angarussa?” Runacar asked, and Randin shook his head.
“No time to spend chatting with Stonekin, and they’re working east of here,” Randin said, gesturing vaguely. “And we’d best get back to our work, too. Stay safe, Commander—you’re the one who’s going to make sure the witches who did this find out what it’s like to die in fire.”
Runacar raised his hand in a silent salute—one of the first lessons he’d learned was that if you couldn’t be confident of victory, you could at least act as if you were. The two Centaurs wheeled and trotted away.
“Have you seen enough?” Radafa asked.
“Too much,” Runacar said. “But I want to get a good look at the terrain between here and Daroldan Great Keep. If the rocks aren’t stopping the Lightborn from setting more fires, we need to know.”
As the purpose of the bombardment was to occupy the Lightborn rather than damaging the Keep, it did not have to be constant. It had taken a sunturn or so to put the plan of bombarding Daroldan Great Keep into action, and much of that time was spent in stockpiling stones. Not enormous boulders, such as a trebuchet could hurl. These were small, perhaps the size of a loaf of bread, easily carried in talons or paws. For the first few sunturns, the Hippogriffs had rained stones upon the Keep from sunrise to sunfall, and at night the violet glow of Shield had been visible leagues to the south. When the novelty faded, they flew over the castel to drop stones less often, but the very randomness of the attack acted in its favor: Damulothir Daroldan would not know when the next attack would come, so his Lightborn must keep constant watch, always ready to cast Shield. And since the Gryphons who were aiding in the bombardment were reliable and conscientious, Runacar could be certain that at least one stone per candlemark would fall upon Daroldan.
Shedding his cloak, Radafa flew up through the clouds to where the sky was blue and the sun was shining—as much to get a break from the desolation below as for the chance to dry out completely. From above, the clouds were as white as the armor of a maiden knight.
Radafa radiated heat like a cookfire, but Runacar had been soaked to the skin while they were on the ground, and leather trews and jerkin provided scant insulation. He shivered in the icy atmosphere of the high sky.
“I can’t see anything from up here, you know!” he shouted. The Gryphon screeched laughter and tilted his wings, and they swirled down through the clouds. Here, the worst of the rain was behind them, and it was warm besides.
Radafa swept over the forest in long lazy arcs, like a hound coursing to pick up a scent, sometimes down at treetop level, sometimes far enough above that Runacar could get a panoramic view of the whole of the forest. From above, the army marching northward looked small and vulnerable. So far as Runacar could tell, there was no sign of either fire or enemy troop movements, and Radafa was not the only one acting as aerial sentry and scout. When Radafa overflew the army, he quickly picked up an escort: another Gryphon and a half-taille of Hippogriffs. A shadow passed over all of them, and Runacar glanced up to see Juniche, the second Aesalion who had agreed to fight as part of the army, flying far above.
“Seen enough?” Radafa asked.
“Almost!” Runacar answered. “Can you take me over the Great Keep? High enough that you aren’t in danger,” he added quickly.
“That would be too high for you, Rune—you would not be able to see, or to breathe,” Radafa answered. “But if we are fast, perhaps their witches will be looking the other way.”
Despite what he’d said, Radafa rose until they were in the lower drifts of the clouds, and Runacar could tell he was putting on speed. They left the Hippogriffs behind, but Juniche continued to follow, as if this was some game of Chase and Catch.
Then Radafa dropped out of the clouds, and there below was Daroldan Great Keep. It was the most enormous single structure Runacar had ever seen—a vast labyrinth of walls within walls, and the space between each set of walls was filled with refugees and livestock. He saw no sign of either Shield or Lightborn. The Inner Close was built as a single great tower, as high as any watchtower, but large enough to hold all that a Great Keep must. Its walls were smooth, and its windows were mere slits. Upon the top of the tower, siege engines were gathered—not to batter down castel walls, but to attack a besieging force. It looked as if a number of war engines that he was used to seeing on a battlefield had been adapted for defense. There was no one in sight.
That isn’t right. Even if they’ve dropped Shield, there should be guardsmen on watch. This is too tempting a target …
Radafa turned toward the forest. The beat of his wings was labored as he strove to rise, for the wind had turned sharply. But at last he gained enough altitude to catch one of the sea-winds to use to soar even higher. His path, of necessity, was a long open spiral.
Suddenly a blur of red and black dove past Radafa toward the tower. Juniche had clearly found the unshielded Keep to be irresistible.
“No!” Runacar shouted, knowing it was useless.
Guardsmen ran from concealment. Bait, Runacar thought in horror. They’re bait. Even this far above, Runacar heard Juniche laugh as he forced them to run to the edges of the tower and leap off.
There was a flash of green as Lightborn came from beneath the siege engines, then a shimmer in the air. A net appeared directly above Juniche, falling over him, pinning his wings, driving him out of the sky and down onto the top of the tower. Aesalions were immune to magic, but Runacar had seen Lightborn use Fetch often enough to know what he was seeing: there was no Magery involved aside from bringing the net and dropping it over Juniche.
He heard Juniche scream. Whatever the strands were coated with, they clung. And they burned.
The Aesalion was trapped, tangled in the net and unable to fly, his body already a map of ugly, oozing burns. He lashed out with claws and barbed tail, but every movement enmeshed him tighter in the thing that was killing him.
His screams of agony sounded very Elven.
More guardsmen clambered to the roof, armed with axes and war hammers. It was the last Runacar saw as Radafa’s path led them out over the forest, but Juniche’s screams followed them, rising shrilly.
Until they abruptly stopped.
If Juniche’s killers celebrated their victory, Runacar did not hear them. His eyes were blinded by unexpected tears, and he could not say why he wept. In war, people died. That was the nature of war. Juniche had shown no more mercy to the guardsmen he had driven to their deaths than the Lightborn had shown to him. It’s only fair, Runacar told himself. Only fair.
“War is not a game,” he whispered, over and over. “War is not a game.”
* * *
When Radafa landed at the waterline, the Otherfolk came running to meet him. The babble of voices filled the air, sounding oddly similar to the breaking waves. As soon as Runacar slid off his back, the Gryphon headed landward. Everyone was asking what had happened, had they seen any other fires in the forest, where was Juniche, had he gotten away …
Word must have already reached them, Runacar thought. Or they saw Juniche fall.
He walked away from the crowd, out onto the wet sand. He stared out to sea, toward the line of foam that marked the passage of the Ocean’s Own in their procession parallel to the shore. Runacar wanted to make Juniche’s death make sense in his mind, and he didn’t think he could. Before the High King’s War, Runacar might have been one of the fighters on that rooftop, cheering as loudly as anyone else over their success in killing one of the most dangerous of the Otherfolk. Only you would have called them Beastlings, and thought of them—of him—as a clever and dangerous animal that needed killing. Like a rabid dog or a rogue wolf.
As Prince-Heir of Caerthalien, he’d often fought beside people he des
pised, against people he called friend. It was the nature of war, and Vieliessar naming herself High King didn’t change that. You didn’t cheer your enemy’s success in battle—but if they did well, it didn’t open an aching void in your heart. And he didn’t know what had changed. He hadn’t liked Juniche. He’d barely known him. Even Drotha was someone he treated with friendly wariness. He didn’t think either Aesalion had possessed close comrades here—and Sword and Star knew they’d despised one another …
“Why so glum, Lord Commander? Surely you aren’t grieving over the death of a talking animal?”
Runacar did not turn around. “Go away, Andhel. This is not the time.”
“Oh but of course, Lord Commander. At once, Lord Commander. Certainly your lightest whim counts for more than any desire of my kind.”
Runacar turned to face her. She’d brought him Hialgo; he didn’t know why someone who despised him so completely made so many reasons to seek out his company. The grey destrier stood just behind her, saddled and bridled. “They aren’t your kind,” he said flatly. Andhel’s eyes gleamed with triumph at goading him to respond. “Oh? Why? Because I look like you and they don’t? Because of course, how you look is the most important thing. When—”
“Shut up,” Runacar said. Andhel looked surprised. “I’ll tell you why they aren’t your kind,” he said, his voice low and soft and very even. “They aren’t your kind because they can never hide what they are. They can never change it. But you? Any time you—or any of the Woodwose—want, you can leave. Approach a Farmhold or a Border steading. Make up some tale. Be accepted. You talk about being Otherfolk, but for you it’s a choice, and one you can unmake at whim. So don’t tell me this is about ‘my’ kind and ‘your’ kind, because it isn’t. And you know it isn’t. For you it’s an adventure you can give up any time you get tired of it.”
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