Blade of Empire

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Is this real?” he asked hoarsely. “How can … How can you be?”

  Again he had the sense Melisha was smiling. “That’s the very end of a very long story,” she said. “I will tell it to you, but not today. For now, child, let me say that I am very grateful that one of you is pure enough for me to approach, for I have much to tell you. And I would rather not have to rely on intermediaries.”

  The idea of anyone thinking he was “pure” would have been enough to make Runacar laugh at any other time. Right now, he was too enchanted—in every sense of the word—by Melisha’s presence. But she seemed to expect a response. “Pure?” he echoed.

  “Everyone has their limitation. As a living symbol of purity—don’t laugh; you’ll find yourself glad of that in the days to come—I am unable to bear the presence of those who are not both chaste and celibate.”

  Even with Melisha still standing right here, his mood darkened instantly. “If you’d known almost from birth that your destiny was to marry for the advantage of your domain—and if you knew that every woman’s first thought was of the advantage she’d gain by having you for a lover … you wouldn’t find chastity that difficult,” Runacar said. He’d grown up hearing his siblings’ complaints: while none of them was the Heir, they were the Heir’s brothers and sisters. And any of them might become the next War Prince if enough misfortune befell Caerthalien … as it had, in the end, leaving him its only survivor.

  Melisha tossed her head and laughed. It was a glorious sound, like silver bells chiming, and Runacar found himself smiling almost against his will. It already seemed as if he’d known Melisha forever—friend, boon companion, all the things Caerthalien’s Heir so rarely had.

  “Why am I important to you?” he asked suddenly. “Not because of my birth—Caerthalien has been erased. And not because of my self—the Western Shore Campaign has to have been enough to convince anyone I’m of no intrinsic worth.” Except as a hostage. If someone knew I hold the High King’s life in my hands …

  Melisha bowed her head in sadness. “I wish you could see yourself as others see you, my dear. You won. You did all that you told poor Leutric you would. And you fought hardest not against your own people, but to save the lives of Otherfolk.”

  “They aren’t my people. Not anymore,” he said roughly.

  Melisha snorted rudely, lashing her tail. “If you cut off your hand, does it stop being your hand, stubborn one? I know you grieve for your failures, and for all who died, but your successes are as vast. And Andhel spoke truth: if you had not cleared the Flower Forest of its inhabitants, they, too, would have died when the ground shook.”

  “I should have planned better. I should have made certain I knew all I needed to before I began. My mistakes cost lives.”

  Melisha regarded him steadily. “Yes. And what of it?” she said.

  He had expected words of comfort. Her honesty stung. “People died,” he said.

  “That is the nature of war,” Melisha said gently. “And you grieve for our deaths. Do you know how great a gift that is?”

  “To see what my ancestors should have seen from the beginning?” he said bitterly.

  “What they saw, and what you think they saw, are two different things,” Melisha said firmly. “Now sit up,” she added briskly. “I’ll help.”

  Following her instructions, he put an arm around her slender neck and levered himself to a sitting position. He’d been afraid of hurting her, or at least pulling her off her feet, but she was far stronger than her delicate form implied. When he was finally seated on the edge of the bed, Runacar had to clutch at its frame for support, for earth and sky seemed to rotate dizzily around him. Again, he had the sense that he ought to be in pain, but wasn’t.

  “There,” she said. “Much better.”

  “If you say so,” Runacar muttered. He vastly preferred the Lightborn Healings: no matter what injury befell you, all it took was a good meal and a nap and it was as if you’d never been hurt.

  “Yes,” Melisha said, as if she could hear his thoughts. “Risking your body is far less appealing when you know you are the one who will have to pay the price of it.”

  Runacar winced slightly, even as he thought to himself that the Winter War had certainly given all of them a taste of that. The Flower Forests of the Uradabhur had been so drained the Lightborn couldn’t even heat water, let alone Heal a case of snowbane or frostkiss. But you weren’t fighting then, a small inner voice reminded him. Only chasing Vieliessar and her army …

  “I don’t think I ever want to see a battlefield again,” he said honestly.

  “That is unfortunate,” Melisha said after a long pause. “Because the battles you must fight are only just beginning.”

  For one horrified moment Runacar thought she meant for him to become High King in Vieliessar’s stead—but he could never bring the High King’s army to the battlefield when the army he would bring to face it would be seen as nothing other than vermin to be slaughtered. “Is this why you came to me?” he asked slowly. “To make sure I would fight for you again? Who is there left to fight? Areve remains, yes, but…”

  “We will speak of that soon enough,” Melisha said. “Right now, let us test the extent of your recovery. Stand up.”

  He would much rather have gotten explanations of the mysterious hints Melisha kept dropping, but he was reluctant to disobey her. She was so beautiful, and she seemed so kind … And did you never adopt a mask of kindness when it suited you, only to discard it as easily? He didn’t want to heed that inner voice, especially when every instinct told him to trust her. But while she might not be deceiving him for some evil purpose, she might well be withholding information “for his own good,” something Runacar disliked nearly as much as being manipulated for selfish purposes. Still, he’d be able to put up a better fight against whatever she had planned for him once he was dressed—and perhaps fed. Or at least knew whether or not he could walk under his own power.

  Standing took effort, and the world seemed to tip crazily about him again as he did. But it settled at last, and he released his death-grip on Melisha’s mane rather shamefacedly. To conceal his embarrassment, he turned his gaze away from her, and got a good look around the mock-pavilion for the first time.

  It looked very much like a war pavilion built by someone who had never seen one. The space was one open chamber, very large, and the walls were nothing more than billowing sheets of thin coarse-woven fabric in pale shades of green and blue and grey, attached only at the top edge to a framework of what looked like heavy reeds. The roof above was more firmly constructed, but the wind still billowed through it—there were vents cut into the fabric to permit that. Whatever ground lay beneath his feet was concealed by several overlapping mats of what looked like woven grass. The space contained several raised pallet-beds on wicker frames—clearly this was, as Andhel had said, a hospital—some storage baskets, a few stools and small tables, and little more. Nearly everything looked to be made of reeds or grass.

  “This place looks as if it would blow away in a high wind,” he said.

  “The Ocean’s Own do not build to last,” Melisha agreed. “But here. There are clothes for you—and boots, which you will appreciate more once you venture outside.” She walked over to one of the woven baskets and flicked its lid deftly off with her horn. Runacar was vaguely startled to see something of such unearthly beauty being used for so mundane a task, and told himself he must stop expecting these people to be limited by the range of his imagination. Easier said than done, especially when the people looked like things in a very good dream.

  She looked at him expectantly, and Runacar walked cautiously across to the basket, still careful of his balance. His muscles trembled with the weakness of long disuse, and his nerves thrilled to the memory of intolerable pain, as if he had been Healed of a grave injury.

  Which is apparently the case, though I remember taking no wound upon the field. Perhaps the Keep fell on me. If it did, I wish it had fallen harder …


  He lifted a bundle of cloth from the basket—carefully, still testing his strength—and carried it back to the bed. When he unwrapped it, its contents looked familiar enough: tunic and leggings and vest and soft boots; fine soft cloth, brightly dyed in jewel colors. Centaur work, or perhaps it had come from one of the castels they’d taken while sweeping the remains of the Hundred Houses out of the Western Reach: the Ocean’s Own wore adornments, not clothes, and all the army’s baggage had been lost in the disaster.

  He dressed slowly and carefully. Muscles protested their use, and though the fabrics were soft to his hands, they felt harsh against his skin. He wondered again in what state he had been brought from the battlefield, and decided he did not wish to know.

  One of the items in the bundle was strange to him, and he regarded it curiously—a deep hood with long lappets. Though it bore a faint similarity to the sort of cowl that was worn in the Hundred Houses against the cold of winter, this hood was not lined with fur, and the thin pale fabric was stiffened with an interlay of horsehair so the hood would not simply collapse against the head, but could be pulled forward to shield the face. He looked at Melisha in puzzlement.

  “The sun is strong here, and there are no trees,” she said, giving the impression of a shrug. “With water on every side, sometimes the brightness is too bright.”

  “It must be like being in the middle of a snowfield in deep winter,” he said slowly, trying to remember that once he’d thought that being cold and going hungry was great sport. Winter hunting was best of all, and one winter he had guested in Vondaimieriel during the Midwinter Truce, and the Prince-Heir had taken him up into the Mystrals to hunt. Those days were gone, along with the world they belonged to. He tried the hood on to see how it fit. The lappets wrapped beneath the chin and were thrown over the shoulders, though perhaps he could tie them if the wind was too strong. “I suppose I can use it as a disguise, if nothing else,” he said, trying to make a joke of it.

  “I suppose it is easier to be a hunted outlaw fleeing for his life than it is to be a leader upon whose judgment so many lives depend,” Melisha said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

  Runacar turned away abruptly. That gibe had hurt. He was being realistic—the Otherfolk would never trust him again after the battle at Daroldan Keep—and she thought he was sulking! He wasn’t. But if he had to demonstrate that unwelcome truth to Melisha, so be it.

  He picked up the comb from the table beside the bed, and sat down to comb out his hair, still looking away from her. Someone had clearly done so before him, for it was not a mass of knots and tangles. When he was done, he plaited it into his usual simple six-strand braid; it would stay of itself until he found something to secure it with. Dressed, he felt much more like himself, and turned to face her again.

  “Now go find your friends,” Melisha said gently. “The path leads down and around to where they’re waiting for you,” she said, pointing with her horn.

  They weren’t his friends. If they had been, they weren’t any longer.

  “Why can’t I stay here with you?” he blurted out. He hated himself for asking, but he didn’t want to leave her side. In his experience, beautiful things were the most dangerous—but Melisha was somehow both beautiful and the most welcoming person he had ever seen.

  “Because while I am many admirable things, I am not a cook,” Melisha answered, amused. “And you need food. And to let Andhel see she has not managed to kill you.”

  “If she thinks that, she’ll be turning handsprings for joy,” Runacar said before he could stop himself.

  “And if she does, she will surely fall into the ocean and be eaten,” Melisha answered teasingly. “You must hurry to save her from that fate.”

  He could already see that when Melisha wanted something, she got it. He might as well get it over with as soon as possible. And he was hungry. “You’ll still be here when I come back?” he asked. Even though it was perilously close to begging, and he despised himself for such weakness, he was unable to keep from uttering the words. Melisha was unlike anyone he had ever known. And knowledge of her folk is only one of the things we lost to our endless wars. How many other things did we lose to them that I can’t even imagine?

  “Perhaps,” she said gently. “I have other matters to attend to here as well. But if I’m gone, I’ll come back. I shall always come back to you. This much I can and will promise you. We have many things to talk about.”

  “Which we can’t talk about now.”

  “It will go far better on a full stomach. Trust me.”

  Runacar sighed. It would have to be enough. Sword and Star defend me, but I do trust you. He forced himself to turn away from her and duck out under one of the blowing flaps.

  The moment he stepped outside Runacar was grateful for the hood he wore. The sun beat down as insistently as the sea breezes blew, and he was paradoxically too warm and chilled at the same time. The road Melisha had mentioned was easily visible: a wide smooth track covered in white sand and edged with seashells, winding gently down the outcropping he stood on. He stood in place and turned slowly, orienting himself as he tested his strength.

  The pavilion he’d just left was on the highest point of the island. The island was tiny, barely a dozen hectares in size, and here Runacar was about as far above the water as he would have been above the ground if he were standing on the battlements of Caerthalien Keep. There were two other pavilions flanking his own on the small bit of level ground. Through the billowing walls, he could see they were utterly empty of anything but the grass mats on the ground.

  “The Ocean’s Own do not build to last.”

  Far below, the sea crashed against half-submerged rocks. On his right—the north—the land ended in a sheer drop-off to the water. There were neither trees nor grass to be seen, only some sparse low-growing scrub. To his left was the bulk of the island. He could see a cluster of slightly more durable structures below—buildings whose walls were made of woven mats instead of gauze. One of them, the largest, seemed to have been built around a stone hearth, and a wisp of smoke came from its chimney. Behind the pavilions—eastward—the islet curved gently inward, and there was a crescent of sandy beach. Two small skiffs were beached there—he supposed they’d be a safe enough way to travel if one had the favor of the Ocean’s Own.

  There was no one in sight.

  Steeling himself for what was to come, he raised his eyes to the eastern horizon. He had little idea where the islet was located, but any war-leader had to have a strong sense of both geography and location. He judged his location to be nearly due west of Daroldan Great Keep. Or … where it had once been.

  The distance made detailed observation difficult, but—unfortunately for Runacar’s peace of mind—not impossible. The forest that should have run nearly the length of the coast was gone, though here and there a small copse stood miraculously untouched. The granite cliff upon which Daroldan Great Keep had rested was gone. The sea there was frothy, throwing up spatters of foam in such a way as to tell Runacar the water was no longer deep. The edge of the land was pale with new exposure, crumbling away into the sea. With time and rain it would be washed down into the ocean, perhaps to form a new spit of land over granite rocks and sundered castel walls.

  Daroldan was gone.

  There was little more he could learn here, and Melisha—he checked quickly—was now nowhere in sight. Runacar couldn’t imagine where she’d vanished to—since he was standing at the head of the only way down from here—but since he’d come to live among the Otherfolk, he’d seen so many strange things that he had nearly lost the ability to marvel at them. Perhaps she could fly. Or turn invisible. Since he hadn’t known unicorns existed until a halfmark ago, he really couldn’t say what they might be able to do.

  As he turned away from his inspection of the coastline, a shadow passed over him. He looked up to see an Ascension of Gryphons soaring eastward in perfect formation. He wondered how many Ascensions of Gryphons—gentle scholars interested
in poems and history—had died in that last battle. He wondered if Riann and Radafa had been among those who died.

  It didn’t matter whether or not they’d survived, he told himself. He wouldn’t see them again. Anyone with any sense would fly far and fast from him—and wings would make that easier.

  He turned away and started down the path.

  * * *

  When he was barely halfway down the footpath, folk began coming out of the reed-mat houses. Though there were perhaps a dozen Otherfolk at most, and their presence made the island feel suddenly overcrowded. Runacar inspected the gathering, searching for faces he knew. He recognized Andhel, naturally, and Tanet and another Woodwose named Maruin were with her. Pendor, Bralros … Audalo was here. One great horn was sheared half away and its stub was counterweighted with a gleaming silver ball; his chest was covered with fresh scars, but he lived. Pelere was absent, as were Keloit and Helda and Frause. He made a vow not to ask after them. He could not bear the thought of being told they were dead.

  Then the last of the group exited the house, and to Runacar’s stunned amazement, he saw that Leutric was here. How? Why? Leutric was the closest thing the Otherfolk had to a leader, and for Leutric to be here meant he’d crossed from Cirandeiron to the Shore after the Battle of Daroldan Keep. Just to see him? To preside over his execution? Only Runacar didn’t think—not really—that he was to be executed, and that was even more disturbing, since it meant that what was to come was utterly unknown. But he had made a new life of confronting the merely disturbing head-on and imperturbably. He did not slacken his pace toward the gathering.

  Just before he reached the point where the path leveled out and ended, Andhel pushed herself away from Tanet and ran off. As Runacar stared after her in bafflement, Audalo stepped forward to swoop him up in an enthusiastic hug.