“By the hooves and teeth of the Starry Hunt,” Runacar said incredulously. “They want to parley?” His mind reeled. It was the very last thing he could have imagined. Are they that dismayed by Delfierarathadan’s burning? If so, I could have set it alight moonturns ago and saved all of us this bother.
The Lightborn was followed by two other figures, also on white palfreys, also carrying greenneedle-wreathed banners, and both dressed entirely in white. But only the pennons of their banners were white: one carried the grey and gold banner of Daroldan, its gilded waves and flowers glinting brightly, and the other the three silver fishes against the blue of Amrolion.
“Sword and Star,” Runacar whispered to himself. “That’s Leopheine and Damulothir—under a truce flag.”
The three figures rode through the scattered stones until they had covered perhaps a third of the distance between Daroldan’s walls and the Otherfolk army. There they stopped. And waited.
“Do we kill them now?” Drotha asked brightly. The Aesalion’s colors were brilliant in the sun, and his black wings held all the iridescent blues and purples of a raven’s feathers.
“No,” Runacar said. “Somebody find me a greenneedle tree.”
Frause’s head whipped toward him incredulously. “You aren’t actually planning to play their stupid Elf-games, are you?” she demanded.
“Yes,” Runacar said evenly. “I am. No one parleys this early if they intend to fight. If nobody fights, we win.”
“And if you die?” Frause asked.
“Then you follow the plans I’ve already made. Kill them, and drive the others through the Dragon’s Gate.”
“Those are stupid plans,” Drotha said, raising his barbed tail over his back.
Runacar merely shrugged.
* * *
The party from Daroldan Keep did not move once in the candlemark it took Runacar’s side to make its preparations. Frause insisted on going with him, in case magic was used; Drotha swore he wanted to see “Real Elves” up close, and as always, there was no way to make an Aesalion do anything it didn’t want to. Runacar supposed that attending a parley with an Aesalion and a Bearward would at least make his position clear. He had participated in more parleys than he could number when he was Heir-Prince of Caerthalien. This was the first one he wasn’t sure he’d survive.
“Do not, for the love of all, speak a word, either of you,” Runacar said. “Even if they parley in good faith, the parley-truce may not extend to either of you.”
Frause snorted dismissively and Drotha laughed.
The three of them moved forward. Runacar held his banner aloft; they’d tied the crown of a greenneedle tree to it, indicating he had agreed to the parley and would abide by its rules, but he had not removed his armor. He brought Hialgo to a stop at the prescribed distance and lifted the visor of his helmet.
“I am Runacar, Warlord to Leutric, King-Emperor. I accept your truce, abiding by the Covenants of War agreed to and upheld by the Hundred Houses, and will hear your words.”
The Lightsister holding the truce-banner looked back at the two War Princes. Her face was white with terror.
“Allow us to dismiss our envoy, now that she is no longer needed,” Prince Damulothir said.
“She may withdraw, but she may not leave the parley field,” Runacar answered. “You shock me, Damulothir Daroldan. Surely Nimphaeros taught you better than that.” Ladyholder Nimphaeros of Daroldan—Damulothir’s mother—had also been its Warlord.
“By the Starry Hunt—it is him!” Leopheine said. “Runacarendalur Caerthalien, War Prince of Caerthalien-that-was … how come you to this evil day?”
“You called me here to ask me that?” Runacar asked in return, trying very hard not to show how hard the inadvertent blow had struck. “Caerthalien-that-was”—the whole of his House had been erased. Just as Farcarinon was. Vieliessar and I are now equals in that at least.
Damulothir gestured to the Lightsister. She backed her horse between theirs, retreating until she was at the very limit of the distance that could still be considered a part of the parley field. The two War Princes conferred, speaking too low for Runacar to hear.
“Will you approach, Lord Runacarendalur?” Damulothir asked. “Alone?”
Runacar looked toward Frause. “If they are honoring the truce this far, they are within their rights to ask to speak to me alone. If you remain where you are, that will be an acceptable distance. Should you move—either of you,” he said, looking meaningfully at Drotha, “the truce is void and they will be within their rights to kill all three of us.”
“They can try,” Drotha purred, twitching the tip of his poisonous tail.
“What do they care what talking animals do?” Frause asked bitterly.
“They don’t,” Runacar said. “But a parley truce has rules, and they can’t just toss out the ones they don’t like. Now hold this, and don’t drop it—if you drop it, the truce is over instantly,” he said, passing her his bough-adorned banner. He looked back at the two War Princes. “My companions are protected under the laws of truce. They are not to be harmed or influenced. Do you agree?”
There was another pause as Damulothir and Leopheine conferred.
“We agree, with the condition that neither are they to harm or influence any of our party,” Leopheine said. “Do you agree to this condition?”
“Do not cause me to forswear myself,” Runacar said softly to Drotha. Then, louder: “We accept this condition.” He sent Hialgo forward at a slow walk. The distance to the two War Princes seemed interminable. “Well?” he said when he got there.
“Be grateful that your father did not live to see this day,” Damulothir said in low furious tones. “At least he is spared that shame.”
“If what my brother did could not kill him outright—and I was there: it didn’t—you can’t imagine this would have,” Runacar said. “You did not call this parley to criticize my life choices. Tell me what you want.”
“We want you to take your pack of monsters and your traitorous alfaljodthi and go away!” Leopheine said. “You—You have set fire to Delfierarathadan!”
For a moment Runacar stared at him incredulously, and then—he couldn’t help it—he began to laugh. The insanity of all this was too much, coming as it did on top of sennights and moonturns of tension and unfamiliar fear. He laughed until his armor groaned in protest, until clutching at the pommel of his saddle was the only thing that kept him in it.
“You— You— You did it first!” he gasped between spasms of mirth. It was the essence of every childhood excuse: He started it, Master—not I!
At last he managed to compose himself. “Yes,” he said gravely. “We did indeed set fire to Delfierarathadan. We evacuated it first, which is more than you bothered to do. If you have called this parley to lodge a complaint about our activity upon the battlefield, I must point out that you yourselves are also in great violation of Arilcarion’s Code for rendering Amrolion Keep a trap, as the Code plainly says that commonly-held places of refuge must be maintained without trap or restriction. Though I am not sure where we would find a tribunal to judge the matter these days,” he added.
Both War Princes were staring at him as if he had suddenly turned into an Aesalion. Runacar sternly controlled his hilarity at the thought. The sense of unreality he’d felt when Daroldan had opened its gates was even stronger now. It gave him the sensation of having downed an entire tankard of brandy on an empty stomach.
“He’s mad,” Leopheine said to Damulothir, loud enough for Runacar to hear.
“Mad or sane, he is the leader of this … rabble,” Damulothir said.
“My lords,” Runacar interrupted. “Did you mistake me? I am this army’s Warlord only. Its generals remain with its troops, and we fight at the command of King-Emperor Leutric. Now. Why am I here?”
There was a pause, the only sound the crying of seagulls and the surf breaking on the rocks at the foot of the cliff.
“So that you may tell us your terms,” D
amulothir said levelly. “With Delfierarathadan burning, our Lightborn are already powerless. We knew you were among those monsters, and originally I had thought to rescue you with this parley. But now I see you are worse than Ivrulion Banebringer ever was.”
There was a moment of silence, and Runacar realized Damulothir would say nothing more.
“Our terms are these,” Runacar said, and to his ears his own voice seemed to come from a very long way away. “Leave. Take with you whatever you wish—save any living thing you hold enslaved—and leave this place. Should you agree to these terms, we will give you a fortnight’s truce, during which we will not pursue you. But when the moon is full once more, that truce is over.”
“How can we possibly trust you?” Leopheine demanded. “You consort with those … things.”
“As you have so kindly pointed out, my own brother was a greater monster than any you now call by that name—and his blood was notably pure. Whether you trust me or not is hardly my concern, my lord Prince. You asked for our terms. I have given them to you. You may have three sunturns to consider them under truce. After that time, we will presume you reject our terms. Is this acceptable?” He knew perfectly well it wasn’t, but the forms of the parley truce required him to ask the question and receive its answer.
“It is acceptable,” Damulothir said, and Leopheine, still glaring furiously, echoed his words.
“Then we shall await your word, my lord Princes,” Runacar said. “Eagerly.”
After that there was nothing but a long nerve-wracking wait as the two War Princes backed their palfreys to where the Lightsister waited. As the three of them turned their horses’ heads toward the gates of the keep, Runacar was finally free to return to where Frause and Drotha waited. He let out a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he was holding: Drotha had stayed put.
“I don’t suppose I can chase them now?” the Aesalion asked in pitiful tones.
“Not for three sunturns,” Runacar said. “And a fortnight more if they agree to our terms.”
* * *
Upon returning to the others, Runacar had immediately briefed Riann on the essence of the parley, and asked her to send her Gryphons to both the Otherfolk following the Elven refugees and to King-Emperor Leutric to let him and them know what had happened. Then he settled in to tell it all again, and in more detail, to the leaders of the various elements of the army, both of land and sea. This necessitated the war council taking place at the shore, which meant backtracking to a beach beyond the cliffs. He was glad of the interruption, for it allowed him to organize his thoughts, and to settle in his mind the answers he could give to the questions he would probably be asked.
“Do you think they’ll do it?” Tanet asked.
“I have no idea,” Runacar said. He looked around for Andhel and did not see her. Well, that was one less dissenting voice to deal with just now. “Damulothir said their original notion was to rescue me from you—from the Otherfolk, at least, as they still think you Woodwose are alfaljodthi. I can only assume that some of the Lightborn we fought must have recognized me; who they think you are, or where they imagine you have come from, only the Hunt knows. But my rescue couldn’t have been their entire plan even if it was a part of it—I assure you, were I Damulothir’s dearest child, he would not risk the lives of all under his command to save just me.”
“So … they wanted to talk to you, and they knew that if they paraded their Houseborn nonsense, you’d come,” Tanet said. “And you did. What do they gain?”
“Time,” Runacar said instantly. “If all parties honor the agreement, that’s three sunturns they have in which we aren’t attacking them.”
“That isn’t long,” Amrunor said. The sea-horse knelt in the wet sand, his elongated body stretching back into deeper water where he twitched his flukes irritably. “What can they do in three days?”
“Reinforcements?” Pelere asked. “When you know help is on the way…”
“… you stall for time,” Runacar said, finishing the Centauress’s thought. “But help isn’t on the way. They sent off their noncombatants and their livestock almost a sennight ago, and sent their komen to protect them. Our sentries have seen no sign of them turning back. Daroldan doesn’t have the resources to make an attack.”
“Maybe they just want some time to beg their gods to intercede,” Amrunor said.
Runacar laughed shortly. “If a warrior doesn’t die in battle, they don’t go to join the Starry Hunt no matter how much they pray, nor will the Hunt aid them. But they have to have something in mind…” He frowned. Back when it had still been possible to spy on Vieliessar’s army—before the False Parley, before the flight through the Dragon’s Gate—the Alliance had learned that Vieliessar had gained the fealty and pledge of both Amrolion and Daroldan with a single simple promise: she would not ask them to leave the Shore undefended. With that promise, she had bought their loyalty. That Runacar and the Otherfolk could break their will and their hope and force them to flee—that was possible. But what was not possible was that Damulothir and Leopheine would just surrender.
“This is a trap,” he said slowly, “but I can’t figure it out. Are you sure there’s no possible ally anywhere near Daroldan Great Keep?”
“The only Elves outside of the Keep—and west of Areve—are the ones who are running away,” Bralros said. “We had that report just this morning. You were there.”
“And they’re still heading toward the Sanctuary,” Runacar said with a sigh. “Even if they doubled back, we’d have word of it sunturns before they got here, and Daroldan’s Warlord must know that. I suppose we’ll just have to wait Damulothir and Leopheine out.” I know I’m missing something, but what?
* * *
By now the whole sky was black with smoke, and if the wind hadn’t been steadily off the water, the air would have been unbreatheable. The forest continued to burn, and neither the Otherfolk magicians nor the scouts reported any attempt to douse it. As the army waited, Runacar made plans for afterward, since even if the army took Daroldan Keep, there was a possibility the fire would cut off their retreat along the southern flanks of the Medhartha Range. The Ocean’s Own seemed confident that an evacuation by sea could easily be accomplished, even during the final battle, if necessary.
The fact that settling this necessitated his spending a great deal of time down at the water’s edge—where the air was cool and fresh—nearly made up for the frustration of holding a conversation with any of the Ocean’s Own.
“And how would you keep them from cutting us to pieces while we ran?” Runacar asked, striving to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
“Our folk can shake the earth—and better than any Earthdancer of the Minotaurs,” Amrunor said smugly. “The difficulty, Runacar, is that it is not … precise. It is done by sorcery, true, but a sorcery that pulls the flaws in the rock apart. After that, it is the rock’s choice what it will do.”
“So it would shake us—and possibly toss us into Great Sea Ocean—along with them,” Runacar said.
“And their tower would probably fall on top of you when it did,” Meraude added. “Still … it can be done.”
And you’ve never thought of doing it in all the centuries we’ve occupied the Shore? With an effort, he kept himself from saying the words out loud, but … I know I will never truly understand the Otherfolk, the Ocean’s Own most of all. Certainly while my people cruelly oppressed the Folk of the Land—and the Folk of the Air when we could—the Ocean’s Own have always been able to swim away from that which displeased them. And Great Sea Ocean is a land a thousand times vaster than the whole of Jer-a-kalaliel. That they are willing, now, to work so closely with the Folk of the Land …
… was a tribute both to King Leutric’s diplomacy and to their fear—a fear the alfaljodthi had never managed to raise in them.
They believe “the Darkness” is coming, and soon, and what they are willing to do makes me wonder if they know anything more than that. Sword and Star know that Vieliessa
r was wonderfully vague about the great peril that meant she needed to become High King. Perhaps if I see her again in this life I should ask her for more details.
But despite more meetings and councils than could occupy a dozen Harvest Courts, no one could truly make plans until they knew what Daroldan and Amrolion meant to do. And no matter what decision the War Princes came to, they were unlikely to announce it before the end of the parley truce.
Even if Daroldan managed to get a spellbird to the High King, they cannot hope she will lift the siege in time to save them; I know she isn’t on this side of the Mystrals, because the Gryphons and the Hippogriffs would send word. And it’s a moonturn and a half—even at the speed she moves—from the Dragon’s Gate to the Shore …
And still Runacar had the frustrating sense he was missing something.
* * *
Today the War Princes would come when the sun was at midheaven to give their answer, so Runacar spent the morning polishing his armor and Hialgo’s tack until they gleamed. It was simple mindless work that left him ample time to worry about what was to come. Over and over, he summoned the events of the parley to his mind: the Lightsister with her white banner and greenneedle garland—poor creature, she’d looked terrified. And so very young. She must have been among the last of the Lightborn to leave the Sanctuary before the war …
She was young.
She was young and …
“Sword and Star!” Runacar gasped. He sprang to his feet. “Pelere!” he shouted. “Radafa! Frause!”
* * *
“It was in front of us all along. A senior Lightborn, Chief Lightborn of one or the other domains, that’s who should have been there for the parley. I don’t know them by sight, but whoever it was, it wasn’t her. She was only a child! Radafa—how many Lightborn went with the refugees?”
“Oh,” said Andhel, “here’s where the masterful Houseborn proves the Houseborn know things others can merely guess at.”
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