“And none taken, my lady,” Isilla said. “Such questions are welcome, for I know that not all here are Lightborn, and I must not take anyone’s knowledge of Lightworking for granted. I borrowed the eyes and wings of a gull, and flew over the battlefield, the shoreline, and a good distance along the road we are on. I saw no one. And to cast an invisibility spell able to trick a beast’s senses is a difficult matter.”
“Thank you, Lightsister,” Aglahir said gravely, seating herself again. “You are most patient.”
“So it seems we are to be undisturbed,” Rondithiel said, looking around to include everyone in that statement. “Yet you all know as well as I what awaits us in the west. There is no haven for us there.”
“Save the Sanctuary of the Star,” Alasneh Lightsister said. “It may yet stand. Surely they would not turn us away, knowing it meant our deaths?”
There was a murmur of agreement from the exhausted refugees. Even though they were all the High King’s people—and Hamphuliadiel Astromancer most emphatically was not—Isilla knew it was difficult for them to believe Hamphuliadiel would not grant them refuge. But Harwing has not come back to us, or sent us word, and I listened for him until I no longer could …
“And surely Harwing Lightbrother went in to the Sanctuary and never came out,” she said sharply. “And Ulvearth Lightsister before him. Do you wish to do the same?”
“What choice is there?” Thorodos asked, and his fellow Rangers to either side of him nodded. “We have little more than the clothes on our backs. Even if we wished to go to the High King, we cannot. Just to reach the Dragon’s Gate would be a journey of moonturns through lands infested by Beastlings, and after that…” He shrugged. “How shall we find her, who has not come to us in all this time?”
“This is true as well,” Rondithiel said. “I have known Hamphuliadiel longer than any of you, I think, and the High King was once my student, as all know. Hamphuliadiel has little love for the High King and her partisans, yet if the Sanctuary of the Star yet remains, I cannot believe he would turn us away from the only place of safety that remains in the West. And perhaps he will wish to hear what we know of the fate of Daroldan and Amrolion, and have fresh news of the lands we will travel over to reach him.”
“Do you mean we must swear allegiance to him, Master Rondithiel?” Dinias asked cautiously.
“I say we should not anticipate the strike before the hawk is loosed,” Rondithiel said gently. “I will not compel anyone to travel with me, and still less to break a sworn oath. But I think there is little safety to be found anywhere else.”
“So we go to the Sanctuary of the Star,” Isilla said heavily. And pray we do not all wish ourselves back on the Shore once we have.
* * *
Even though there was still something left of what he once had been that thought and wondered, Runacar had the sense that he ought to be—might actually be—dead. His mind carried him back to a time long ago, when he had been the acknowledged leader of the castel children who would grow up to become his komen and vassals. As he drifted through the long-ago memory, it seemed to Runacar that he could feel the sun, warm upon his upturned face, and smell the raw green scents of late Spring. Sword Moon. The beginning of War Season. In those long golden days of childhood they had played games of knights and war and dying gloriously in battle. They had never quite dared to play at being the Huntsman and His Rade, but there had been much talk—often ending in blows—of what sort of death would count as enough to ensure their eternal membership in the Starry Hunt.
“What if you died during a battle, but you weren’t on the battlefield at all and died of something else? But you were near it?”
“What if you were out hunting outlaws and one of them killed you? Would that be a death in battle?” (“Of course it would!” young Runacarendalur had answered scornfully. “You’d both be fighting with swords!”)
“Or Beastlings? They don’t have swords. What about then?”
“What if you were, say, wounded in a battle, but you didn’t die until, maybe, a sennight later? Would it count?”
Would it count? Would it count? Would it count? The eternal question, beating out its insistent rhythm beneath everything the alfaljodthi did and all they aspired to be. Wanting a glorious death as a gateway into an even more glorious Eternity riding among the stars beside the Riders to Whom they pledged every heroic feat, to Whom they made sacrifice and of Whom they begged favor. To ride forever with the Starry Hunt, the hooves of Its immortal destriers chiming their silvery music among the stars. A warrior’s death and a warrior’s paradise: eternal battle.
Only eternal battle was now the most terrible thing Runacar could imagine.
He groaned in anguish.
Hush, someone said. He felt a touch, infinitely gentle, on his cheek. Go back to sleep, darling. You don’t need to wake yet.
* * *
He slept. He dreamed.
In his dreams, Runacar was not merely one of the Rade, but its leader. He rode a stallion formed of storm and fire: tireless, eternal. All around him the stars burned brightly, and the silver hooves of his stallion chimed as they met the surface of the Starry Road. (He remembered the child he had been, the child who pointed upward at the Road in the night sky, asking his nurse if he would know when his father and his siblings rode upon it. Would they look down and see him? Would they care?)
And slowly, in the way of dreams, it came to him. Not who he was, or where he was, but what his dream-self, the Starry Huntsman, was doing. The Rade was not riding to battle.
It was running away.
But the Rade did not run. The Rade was invincible. In its ranks rode every warrior who had ever lived. It could not be defeated. He tried to stop, to turn his stallion’s head aside, and could not. The impossibility of it made dream-Runacar cry out. He raised himself in his stirrups and looked behind. The Starry Hunt spread out behind him in its thousands upon uncounted thousands. Their swords and armor of silver and starlight gleaming in the vast darkness that surrounded Them.
But Darkness followed.
With more than sight he saw the Riders in the fantail of the great array wink out one by one. Behind Them there was no longer a star-strewn path. It, too, had vanished, along with the stars around it. He could not tell whether the Darkness destroyed them, or if they simply faded away, but when he turned again to gaze at the road ahead, there was nothing but light before him. No stars, no road, only a light as bright and blazing as if it was all the Light there could ever be, gathered together—just as the Darkness behind him was all there was of Darkness. The Light would destroy the Starry Hunt as surely and as mercilessly as the Darkness devoured Them. There was only a choice of deaths.
There is no choice, a voice whispered in his ear. There is only death.
* * *
This time Runacar came fully awake, shouting and struggling as he demanded horse, armor, sword …
He fell back with a groan, gasping not so much at the pain—any komen was used to pain—but at the wrongness he felt in his body, a thing of grinding weakness and barely-healed breakage and bone-deep ache. His staring eyes were dazzled by the brightness that was all that he could see, and he began again to fight, thinking he was still in the dream.
Hands pressed down hard on his shoulders, forcing him back to the mattress.
“Hold still, Houseborn. If you try to get up your guts will probably fall out again and I have no intention of cleaning up after you.”
“Andhel.” The relief he felt at hearing her voice was shocking. “You’re…?”
“Alive? Of course I am. I’d hate to think that you and I were destined to share an afterlife,” she answered tartly. “Now hold still.” He heard the familiar sound of a cloth being wrung out over a bowl of water, and then the soft wet cloth was applied (surprisingly gently) to his face. “You’ve been asleep for a long time,” Andhel said. “And we put dream-honey in your eyes to heal them.”
She took the cloth away. Runacar blinked rapidly. H
is sight was still blurry, but he could see.
It was day. A soft hot breeze blew over his skin. Summer wind, summer light. He lay on a bed in some sort of pavilion. The pavilion couldn’t be meant as much of a protection, for the walls were of some gauzy material, and billowed like banners. Through the gaps he could see the horizon, and the endless ocean stretching out to greet it.
“Where…?” he asked, struggling to sit up.
“One of the islands a little way off the coast. The nymphs use it sometimes. Now it’s a hospital.”
Andhel shoved him back down again with a certain amount of relish, unable to conceal a smirk as she sat down on the edge of his bed to hold him still. Her face was scrubbed clean of paint for the first time since he could remember. Her hair was chopped short, and she hadn’t dyed it recently: there was about a finger’s width of natural black showing at the roots. She wore a simple sand-colored tunic and leggings of very fine cloth, plain and unornamented, and her feet were bare. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to merit the Woodwose as his nurse. Perhaps it was a punishment.
At least she was alive.
“Who—” he began, then suddenly became aware of how dry and parched his mouth and throat were. “Thirsty,” he said.
Andhel reached for something on a nearby table, and put an arm behind his head to lift him so he could drink. The cup was a spouted invalid’s cup, and the taste of its contents was unfamiliar, but Runacar was of no mind to complain. Whatever the cool liquid was, it was wonderfully refreshing.
“Better?” she asked, though as one who already knew the answer. Trust Andhel to seize the opportunity presented by his helplessness. He was probably lucky she hadn’t just smothered him as he slept.
“Why didn’t … someone … Heal me?” he asked haltingly. I’ve been here for a long time. She said so. Not that he wasn’t grateful for as much care as he had received, but still. He knew the Ocean’s Own were sorcerers with power to rival the Lightborn. And the Lightborn Healed. It was one of their most useful functions.
Andhel snorted rudely. “They did, Houseborn. After the ground stopped shaking, it took Drotha candlemarks to find you, and you were nearly dead when he did. He said he would’ve eaten you except for the fact you’d probably chew your way out of his stomach, so count yourself lucky. And it’s not as if you were the only one who needed care, you know.”
Runacar remembered what he’d seen of the battle and its aftermath and winced inwardly. “How many died?” he asked.
“All of them.” Andhel’s tone was gleeful. “Their big stone tower is gone—Meraude says she likes the new coastline much better—and all the Houseborn are dead.”
“No,” Runacar said. “How many … of us?”
Andhel’s look of bloodthirsty delight vanished abruptly. He saw her bite her lip and look away, and knew that whatever she said next would be a lie.
“If you had not evacuated everyone from Delfierarathadan, they would have died in the earth-shaking whether the forest burned or not. Your plan saved many lives, Runacar.”
Even her unaccustomed use of his name couldn’t distract him. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, ignoring the dizzying weakness even so small a movement brought. “How many?” he demanded, locking his gaze with hers.
“Half!” she cried furiously, pulling away and springing to her feet. “Half of us died! There! Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now, Houseborn?”
Runacar turned his head away and closed his eyes.
Half. Because I did not spot a simple trick I would have used myself. Because I failed at the only thing I’m any good at. Thousands are dead. Because of me.
He could hear Andhel moving around near him for a little while, but she did not speak, and eventually she went away. He was left alone with his thoughts, and they were not pleasant ones. No wonder she wanted to be your nursemaid. She wanted to be the one who told you. Even as he thought it, he knew it was unfair: she’d tried to lie. To spare him, incredible as the notion was. But … half. Half of the army he’d led into battle, dead. The sheer utter waste of it was like a heavy stone laid over his heart. So many dead, when none of them had needed to die at all. Now, when it was too late, he saw all the things he could have, should have, done. Evacuated Delfierarathadan before he’d even begun the fighting. Spoke with the Ocean’s Own—and with any who had dealings with them—until he had a full and complete understanding of what they were willing and able to do. Should and could and would have. And didn’t. And hadn’t.
He’d been a knight—or in training to be one—his entire life. He’d been a general, a commander of armies. He’d planned battles and led warriors into them. He didn’t know why this failure was different from the other times his mistakes—or the cleverness of others—had cost Caerthalien the victory, but it was. He grieved over this loss as he had never taken the time to grieve for the death of his brothers, his father, his mother, his House. Somehow, this was worse than all of those.
Was it because the Otherfolk weren’t used to fighting? No. They’d fought the Hundred Houses ceaselessly. They’d had no choice. Their style of combat—and their attitude toward it—was different from that of those who followed the Code of Battle and the Way of the Sword, but they knew about fighting. They had fought and died since before the founding of Caerthalien in a war eternally lost.
But he’d expected to change all that. To lift them out of their incessant round of failure, to triumph in battle over the only two domains that still existed; their most ancient enemy: Daroldan and Amrolion.
And he hadn’t. Nothing he’d done had made a real difference. Leutric could have done as much without his help. Meraude, Aejus, Amrunor—they could have ended the fighting before the first clash. They’d agreed to support Leutric: that had changed everything. It had changed more things than he had bothered to know.
He’d been asked to advise them, but he hadn’t. Not really. He’d spent the last ten Wheelturns trying to turn the Otherfolk into second-rate komen, and look where it had gotten them.
Maybe Andhel had been right from the very beginning. Maybe the Hundred Houses did destroy everything they touched.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THUNDER MOON: THE UNICORN’S PROMISE
The bones of the earth shall be given flight, and who dares to make no choice and speak no question / Shall yoke the unchained unicorn once more …
—The Last Song of Pelashia Celenthodiel
Runacar didn’t know how long he spent tormenting himself with might-have-beens before he became aware of a new presence in the pavilion. Not Andhel. Probably one of the Healers, come to tell him to be joyous because he’d survived. And he couldn’t. Not even knowing his death would kill Vieliessar could make him happy to be alive. Nothing could.
“Well,” the intruder said. “It’s good to see you awake at last. I do admit this is rather a surprise—oh, not that you’re awake and alive; that was only a matter of time, with all the help you’ve gotten—but that you and I can have this conversation. A welcome one, all things considered. We could use a few of those.”
The voice was feminine. Warm and welcoming—as if they two shared some unvoiced joke—but grave and rueful as well. Despite his determination to block out the whole of the living world, Runacar turned his head in the direction of the voice … and saw what could not be.
A unicorn.
He should be used to seeing impossible things by now, he told himself, but everyone knew the unicorn was only a symbol. Lannarien’s Book of Living Things devoted entire chapters to listing such wholly-imaginary creatures, after all. Lannarien had written that the unicorn, being made up from parts of wholly incompatible beasts—deer and lion and goat and serpent—and crowned with a single horn of miraculous powers upon its brow, was the symbol of the High Kingship.
The unicorn standing beside his bed, regarding him with patient and sympathetic humor, was nothing like the depiction in that scroll. It—she—was roughly the size of a young deer (though she reminded him more,
somehow, of one of the great cats). Her body was covered with short plush silvery-white fur unlike the coat of any creature Runacar had ever seen, and the mane that ran from poll to nape of her long slender neck was stiff and roached. She had a long tufted tail that she held upright and curled, as if she were some sort of giant housecat, and her narrow pale hooves were cloven. Her head was not precisely like that of deer or goat or horse, just vaguely similar, in the way a housecat resembled a snow-tiger, and her eyes were as dark and Elven as his own, surrounded by ice-pale lashes so long and thick he could barely see her eyes when she gazed through them. And all those things were cast into insignificance by the horn in the center of her forehead. It was long, not smooth but spiraled, utterly straight, and came to a point as impossibly delicate—and as sharp—as a rose thorn. Though here inside the pavilion she was in shadow, her horn glowed as luminously as a jewel kissed by the sun. It was every color and none. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
Without thought, he reached for her. She took a step toward him, and he wanted to weep with gratitude, because he did not think he could have survived without being able to touch her. His fingers stroked down the side of her neck, and he found her coat was even softer than it looked.
“I love you,” he blurted out, and then cursed himself for it. It might be true—but Drotha had played mind-games with him often enough when they’d first met for Runacar to be aware that some ideas might not be your own no matter how much they seemed to be, and Ivrulion had certainly taught him that the body and spirit could be placed in ethereal chains they could not break. Even while he believed these were his own true and unfettered thoughts, Runacar wondered if he could believe even his own mind.
But the unicorn seemed to smile, and suddenly Runacar realized how unworthy his fears had been. What need could a being like this have of secrets and trickery when she had merely to be?
“Thank you,” she said gravely. “I love you, too. My name is Melisha, by the way. I’ve been one of the people helping you heal. I’m sorry that you could not receive better news when you awakened. I came as soon as I heard.”
Blade of Empire Page 43