by Vox Day
“I thank you for your candor, General. And I will fervently pray, every morning and every night, that your considered and educated opinion is mistaken.”
“D’accord, Monseigneur Chancelier.” In this, at least, they were agreed.
Then light shattered the dim gloom and both Marcus and du Moulin whirled around, startled, as both doors to the dark sanctuary abruptly burst open and the urgent clatter of boots echoed over the marble floor. The tall figure with a rigid military bearing cast in silhouette soon revealed itself to be Antoine de Beaumille, the Maréchal de Savonne, followed by no less than ten of his men, all wearing the royal blue-and-gold livery. Behind them, Marcus’s two decurions trailed, as well as the young messenger who had found him at the tournament.
“Du Moulin, the king has summoned the Haut Conseil at the palace, now!” the elderly soldier roared. “General Valerie, you’ll be wanting to ride back to the Eastmarch at once! The damned verdards are on the move!”
Bereth
Bereth lay back in the pink-veined white marble of the tub and sighed with pleasure. It was the first time in more than a month she’d had a proper bath, and this morning was the first time she’d been able to sleep in past dawn since the day she’d flown to the High Guard’s forward encampment north of the Kurs-Magog. Perhaps she should have returned sooner, she thought, perhaps she should have let Lord Oakenheart send her home after losing Merlian, as he’d threatened.
Well, she was glad he’d sent her home now. At least here, in the familiarity and comfort of her parent’s residence in Elebrion, the sights and smells of death and decay that had overwhelmed her seemed to be less something she’d experienced herself than a tale of something that happened to someone else, of horrors that had taken place in another time, and in another distant, alien land. After falling ill, she had begun crying, helplessly weeping, overcome by the sheer quantity of blood on her hands.
No, she decided. As awful as the assault on her senses had been, she had done the right thing in helping the High Guard cut down the number of boars the king would have to face in the field. On her flight back to the city, she had seen the defenseless estates, the vineyards and the cultivated lands, that would be devastated even if the city walls proved impervious to the Great Orc’s rage. And if they were not, well, that was something that did not even bear thinking about.
She had done the right thing. And yet, the thought of the one orc who was too lost in its grief to shake its fist at them, to even bother looking up at them, troubled her. Did it—did he—like her mourn the loss of a faithful steed? Whatever pity she momentarily felt disappeared in the flash of anger at the reminder of her beloved hawk and the knowledge that she would never ride through the sky on his back again. She looked down at the water and shuddered. It was grey, and there were bits of flotsam floating in it; her mother would not be pleased with the sight of a thin crust of filth lining the sides and bottom of the tub. With another sight that was more regret than pleasure, she pushed down the lever that opened the drain, then stood, letting the water drip from her before banishing the last drops from her skin with a murmured spell. Her minor gift for hydromancy served little purpose in the High Guard, but it was occasionally useful at times.
A clean white robe had been left there for her, and she slipped her arms inside it, then ran her hands through her wet hair and tucked it behind her ears. She could have banished the water in her hair as well, but she’d learned decades ago that doing so tended to leave her hair brittle and dry.
“Are you hungry?” she heard her mother call from downstairs.
“Not particularly.” She descended the circular staircase carefully; even with her feet being dry, the marble was slick under them and she had fallen on these very stairs more than a few times over the years. Her mother was seated in what she called her “interior veranda”, an open room adjacent to the kitchen with a large window that overlooked one of the four artificial lakes inside the city walls. Her parents were not rich; her father Eulenarias was a second-rank royal adjudicator, and her mother was presently occupying herself with painting flowers, although it took her about three years to complete a single painting. Bereth thought the paintings were rather good, but her mother absolutely refused to let anyone outside the family see them.
“It’s so good to have you back again,” her mother told her for the third time this morning. “It’s just not the same without you here.”
Bereth smiled at her mother. She was a pretty elf of two hundred fifty, but except for a few very faint lines around her eyes, she might have been no older than Bereth. Her dark golden hair betrayed her Kir Donasian origins; she lacked the alabaster features of the true high elf, but were she a little more fair, they might have passed for sisters.
“I wish I didn’t have to, but I can’t stay more than another night or two. The High Guard needs me.”
“Of course you can!” Her mother smiled sympathetically, but she had the good sense not to mention Merlian. “I worry about you, Bereth, and I know perfectly well that you’re not telling me everything. The High Lord himself said you needed rest in his note.”
Bereth shook her head and snorted to herself. She wasn’t mad. Of course she hadn’t told her parents more than the barest details. If they’d had any idea how close she’d come to providing an early lunch to a goblin cavalry patrol, they’d put chains on her feet and ensorcel every door and window in the residence.
“You don’t understand, mother. There is no running away from this. This army, it’s bigger than anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever even read about. I can’t believe no one is doing anything here! It’s as if no one is aware that we’re all in mortal peril.”
“When you live as long as we have, darling, you eventually learn that there is seldom a need to panic. Very often, if you simply ignore the problem, you’ll find it goes away on its own accord before long.”
“The Great Orc is not going away, mother. He’s coming here and he’s bringing over one hundred thousand orcs and goblins and sky knows what else with him!”
Her mother yawned behind her hand. “I know, darling. He’s not the first, and I find it hard to imagine he will be the last. But these things have a way of sorting themselves out.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. It’s always something different. There was the time that a large army of Men marched all the way to the lower slopes of the mountain. Everyone was very excited, I was only a child, but I remember it very well because my mother and I were flown from our family estate here to the city by a sky rider. It was very exciting!”
“I can imagine,” Bereth said dryly.
“Yes, well, I suppose you can. In any event, I remember my mother was absolutely terrified and everyone was convinced that we were in dreadful peril because it was said these awful Men possessed engines of war that could destroy the walls. But then one of the princes dispelled the supports for one of the bridges that crossed a gorge while the army was crossing it, and that was enough to send the Men running home.”
Bereth sighed. “Those particular Men were southerners and they were unfamiliar with magic. That’s not the case with the Great Orc. He has a considerable number of mages, both orc and goblin, and they’ve been utilizing spells and artifices that not even Lord Oakenheart has seen before. And he’s more than a thousand years old!”
“You’re missing my point.”
“Which is what?”
“Every invasion is different, of course. But regardless of whatever the particulars might be, it’s nothing that the High King and his commanders haven’t seen before. That’s one of the advantages of being long-lived, darling. It provides a certain familiarity in any given situation. You’re so young that it’s not surprising that you can’t see that yet.”
“Lord Oakenheart and the Prince-General are hardly young, mother. And I can assure you, they are very concerned about the possibility we won’t be able to stop them.”
“If the High
King can’t, the Collegium will,” her mother’s confidence was unshaken. “Indeed, I’ve even heard that Bessarias has been summoned from his seclusion. Perhaps that is why.”
“Who is Bessarias?” Bereth had never heard of the elf. “He’s a mage?”
“He is the greatest magister in the history of the Collegium. In the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Do you mean to tell me that in all of your flying about, you’ve never seen the Glass Desert?”
“There’s not much to see. It’s deep in the wastes of Kurs-Magog. It’s just a flat patch of sand and brush, pretty much like any other.”
“Yes, I suppose the Mother always claims her own in time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, I have never been there myself, but I expect that if you dig a little beneath that sand, you’ll find that underneath it lies a vast sheet of glass. It’s said that as a young magister, Bessarias created a spell that broke the very fabric of Creation. It turned the sand to glass for as far as the eye could see.”
“Danneth uffernyn!” Bereth’s own sorceries were barely sufficient to light a candle if she concentrated hard enough; she couldn’t fathom possessing such unvarnished power.
“Language, dear. He disappeared for decades about a century ago, and some said he was dead, but it seems he was only in retirement. Or perhaps he simply preferred more solitary studies; I imagine the scholarly life can become rather tiresome when one is constantly at the mercy of students who wish to pester one.”
Bereth nodded. She wasn’t particularly interested in hearing about yet another acquaintance of her mother’s she’d never even met. She let her mind wander, thinking about which birds and riders would be returning from the morning patrol about now. She had no intention of doing much more than bathe and sleep while she was on leave; that would give her a reserve that would make the inevitable exhaustion of the brutally repetitive sky patrols easier to endure. Then a name caught her attention and she began to listen more closely.
“And so naturally I thought of you, given the close attention he has paid you over the years.”
“Wait, did you say something about Ilri?”
“Why yes, weren’t you listening? It seems Lord Kelethan sold his stables recently.”
“His stables! So that’s where he found the money,” Bereth mused aloud. Her words didn’t escape her mother’s notice.
“The money for what?”
Bereth sighed. “He bought me an egg.”
“An egg?” Her mother frowned for a moment before comprehension dawned. “He bought you a warhawk?”
“Not exactly. I suppose you could say that he allowed me to move up a few clutches. I’ll still have to wait another year or two.”
“Bereth, you can’t possibly accept that sort of gift from Ilriathas! Are you affianced? Did he propose marriage to you?” Her mother had half-risen from the divan on which she was sitting and her eyes were flashing as if she was furious.
“What? I don’t understand!”
“Ilriathas had over one thousand horses in his stable. He’s been breeding them for over a century; no one could believe he sold them off so quickly. And now you tell me that he did this for you?”
“Mother, I’m not affianced to Ilri. Or to anyone. And he didn’t propose marriage, I mean, not anymore than he always does.”
“Bereth, you cannot treat him so lightly! It is cruel to toy with his affections as you do. Would it be so terrible, to be married to such an elf? He is young, he is handsome, and you have told me yourself how brave he is!”
“And he is wealthy and influential at court, Mother. I find it difficult to imagine that somehow slipped your mind!”
Her mother’s pale face reddened ever so slightly and the tips of her long ears twitched. For an elf as normally self-controlled as she was, Bereth knew this indicated a severe state of irritation. She rose gracefully to her feet and turned her back on her daughter, and walked over to the window to look out over the placid waters of the lake.
When she turned around, she was calm again, but there was something icy about her expression.
“Your father and I have tolerated this High Guard nonsense long enough. You are young, that is true, and one has to make allowances for the stupidity and selfishness of youth. We were willing to accept that you had won a place in the Guard on your merit, and that you had important contributions to make to the defense of the Three Kingdoms. But you have no more place in the Guard, Bereth, not anymore.”
Bereth glared at her mother in silence. She was too angry, too furious, to find the words to even begin. It was with some difficulty that she prevented herself from raising her voice.
“I am not the first sky rider to lose her mount,” she hissed from between her teeth. “And the High Guard is my place!”
“No, your place is here, in a civilized home, not gallivanting across the northern wastes treating orcs like pincushions! You should be providing your father and me with grandchildren, not playing at being a proper sorceress. You’ve never had the aptitude or the scholarly interest!”
“Is that what this is all about?” Bereth shouted at her. “You regret giving up your precious sorcery to have me, so now you want me to be miserable by making me give up the one thing I love most as well? Well, guess what, mother. I already lost it! I already lost him! They shot him and they murdered him and even though he was dying he still gave everything he had to save me and I killed him and it was all my fault!”
She burst into tears and covered her hands with her eyes. A moment later, she felt her mother’s arms embracing her, pulling her in, and holding her tight.
“Shh, it’s all right, darling. It’s all right.”
Bereth didn’t know how long she cried, but her mother’s green tunic was soaked through with tears by the time she finally stopped. She wiped at her eyes and then at her nose with her hands, then stared at her mother in silent, rueful apology.
“Never think that I regret giving up my magic for you, my dear, most darling daughter.” Her mother smiled, and a dreamy look entered her eyes. “The truth is that I gave it up for your father. That was more than a hundred years ago, and I can still remember that very last spell, knowing perfectly well that it was going to be the last one I ever would cast.”
“What was it?” Bereth asked, genuinely curious.
“It is absolutely no business of yours,” her mother replied archly, stoking her curiosity even more. “But I will say this. For all that I loved, truly loved, spellweaving and spellcasting, I have never once regretted my decision.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Not for one single moment.” Her mother frowned unexpectedly and a thoughtful expression appeared on her face. “I had debated over whether I should tell you this or not. Your father didn’t think anything would come of it, but now that I know the extent of Lord Kelethan’s interest in you, I really think you had better know.”
“Know what?” Bereth asked, suspicious at the mention of Ilri’s title.
“Your father was helping one of the Lord Magistrates with some research into the archives a few days ago. The magistrate had been charged by the High King to delve into some rather arcane areas of law, most of which were related to the king’s ancient rights concerning his subjects. Specifically, his right to demand subjects from them.”
“I don’t understand. Demand what from them?”
“As the king’s subjects, we all have duties as well as rights. And one of those duties, as a royal subject, is to provide the king with future subjects.”
“Children,” Bereth said, carefully navigating her way through her mother’s words. “But why is the king concerned with old laws like that? Surely he isn’t going to demand that every elf simply drop what she is doing and bear him children? Does he plan to father them all himself?”
“I rather doubt the queen would permit that.” Her mother smiled. “No, your father said the Lord Magistrate was primarily interested in the laws as they related to marriage. It seems tha
t some of the older lords have been pressing the king to announce a decree ordering certain elves to marry.”
“He can’t do that, can he?”
“According to your father, he absolutely can. Whether he will, though, is entirely another matter. He’s never been inclined to listen to most of those particular lords before, that much is certain.”
“Why are you telling me this. Do you think I might be one of those ordered to marry?”
Her mother shrugged. “It’s possible. I don’t know. But I don’t think so. And that’s not my thought. Your father suggested, on the basis of one of the documents, that the king might be thinking of ordering all of his knighted nobles to marry as a condition of their vassalage. It’s no secret that he’s concerned about the number of knights he can put in the field. If that’s the case, you would do well to consider accepting Lord Kelethan’s offer.”
“Why?”
“Because Ilriathas will be one of those at whom the decree is directed. And he is almost surely the best offer you’re ever going to get, Bereth, even if you live to be five hundred. Among his other advantages is the fact that he happens to love you.”
“But I don’t want to marry him! I don’t want to marry anyone!”
“The stars do seem to be aligning, my dear. What I don’t understand is why you’re being so stubborn. Is there someone else?”
“No!” Bereth protested hotly. Too hotly, it seemed, as her mother’s ears twitched and her finely plucked eyebrows rose with suspicion. “I mean, not really. No one serious.”
Her mother sighed and shook her head. “Let me guess. He’s dashing, he’s frivolous, he’s amusing, and he’s someone you know perfectly well is never going to demand anything from you, make any sort of impression on your heart, or be troubled when you decide to put an end to it.”