by Vox Day
Bereth stared at her mother. Short of adding a physical description, she could hardly have described Lassarian better. “How did you know?”
“Because you’re doing exactly what morwynion ifanc have done for generations. You’re putting off any chance of developing a real relationship, the sort of relationship that frightens you, by hiding behind impossible ones you know will never go anywhere.”
“If everyone does it, what is wrong with it?”
Her mother smiled grimly. “Once you start down that path, my dear, its very hard to know when to leave it. There are seven-hundred-year-old sorceresses at the Collegium who fully intended to marry one day, but with every year that passed, they found it harder to change their ways, and, of course, fewer elves who were interested in them. I have friends like that. It’s a lonely way to live, Bereth, and it doesn’t get easier with time.”
“So what are you saying, I should just marry Ilri even though I don’t love him?”
“I am saying that if you marry Lord Kelethan, you will almost certainly come to love him in time. It is the Mother’s great gift to us, to compensate for the sacrifices we must make and the burdens we must carry. Love is a choice, Bereth, it is commitment, not magic or coincidence. That flutter of excitement for which you are waiting is ephemeral; even when it comes, it disappears again in the blink of an eye.”
“And if I don’t intend to marry him, I shouldn’t accept his gifts?”
Her mother made a face. “Normally, considering the extravagance and the expense, I would say you should not. But this is a different matter. The nature of the gift is such that it precludes you marrying him. So, he’s making it clear that he intends to wait for you. And he is, after all, nearly three hundred years old, so it’s obvious that he is not in a hurry. His heart is true. But true or not, Lord Kelethan will not deny the decree of the king. And young as he is, he may see giving you up as a noble gesture or some other such nonsense.”
“Why do you call him young when he’s fifty years older than you are?”
“Males age much more slowly than we do, darling. And motherhood ages an elf; I expect I learned more wisdom in your first year than in the one hundred I’d lived before.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her mother laughed. “I discovered how many of my ideas about the world were utterly and ridiculously wrong. When you have children of your own, you will understand too. Now, does Ilriathas know about this other elf?”
Bereth blushed. This was simply not a conversation she wanted to be having with her mother. “Ah, no, I don’t think so. It’s nothing serious, I swear!”
“And yet it is serious enough that you’re not comfortable telling him about it. That should tell you something right there, my dear. I very much recommend you put an end to it at once, or else decline Lord Kelethan’s gift. Males can be very possessive, especially of those they do not actually possess. You’re playing with fire there, Bereth.”
It was true. Bereth wanted to tell her mother how it was different at the camp, and in the sky, how the combination of fear, exhaustion, and the knowledge that every patrol might be her last gave her the sense that anything was possible and everything was permissible. But how could she tell her that and not drive her mother mad with worry? And even she knew it was foolishness, a short-sighted madness that stemmed from being constantly drenched in battle, blood, and death. It was easier to stop thinking and lose herself in momentary pleasures than face her fears… or the terrible things she had done.
So she nodded dutifully and avoided meeting her mother’s eyes. What she would do about Lassarian, she did not know, but then, if this war had taught her anything, it was to not worry overmuch about a tomorrow that might never come.
As it turned out, her worries were groundless. The next day, a captain of the Prince’s Guard appeared at the door of her parents’ home with orders from Lord Oakenheart seconding her to the Prince-General’s staff and instructing her to proceed immediately to Tir Diffaith, the great fortification that demarcated the wasteland of Kurs-Magog from the lands of Elebrion proper. The orders surprised her, both the staff transfer as well as the implication that the prince intended to make his stand at the Tir rather than continue with his plan for a more aggressive mobile defense.
Both her mother and father were there to see her off, as were several of their friends. Her father held her close for a long moment, but said nothing; his eyes spoke sufficiently of his love and concern for her. Her mother wept, rather more prettily than she herself had the day before, Bereth noted, before embracing her.
“Now take care of yourself, and do mind your behavior, darling. Even if you must fight a war, you can do so as a proper firain, not a brwnmerch.” She smiled sweetly at her daughter’s astonished expression, and blew her a kiss.
Feeling somewhat dazed at her mother’s unexpected choice of words, Bereth took her leave, bearing considerably more in her saddlebags than she had arrived with. The captain, a well-bred elf of moderate height, took them from her, nodded to her father, then climbed the stairs that led to the garden where his rather small, dark-feathered hawk was chained to a post. Bereth felt her eyes prick slightly at the sight; it was the very same post to which she had chained Merlian so often in the past.
“I hope you took the chance to rest rather than recreate while you were here,” the young captain said. “I’m Cangenhelas, by the way. I should warn you, the prince is liable to run his attachés rather ragged.”
“Nothing but sleep, bathe, and be lectured by my mother,” Bereth assured him. “And thank you for coming to fetch me. Do you have any idea why the prince-general wants me on his staff?”
The young elf grinned as he expertly leaped up and caught the saddle horn, then swung himself gracefully up to the saddle. He couldn’t be in more than his sixth decade yet, and his bright-eyed smile made him seem even younger. “I can’t remember his exact words, but it was something to the effect of, ‘bring me that damned elfenwy who came up with the idea for the witch-brew, that’s the first useful idea anyone in this damned army has had since the Great Orc marched!’”
“He sounds lovely,” she said dryly as she handed her bags up to him. She wondered how long she’d be able to stand him shouting at her before she broke down and started crying.
“Oh, he’s not so terrible. He barks at everyone. You just have to learn not to take it personally.” After stowing her saddlebags with a grunt and a mildly accusatory glance at her, he pointed to the chain. “Mind releasing that?”
She eyed the hawk uncertainly. Merlian would never have permitted anyone else to approach his feet so closely without at least considering a swipe with his talons, but every bird was different. Figuring that the captain must know his bird, she crossed her fingers, bent down, and unhooked the chain from the iron band around its right leg.
The hawk hopped once and gave out a loud, crow-like caw, which startled her and sent her stumbling back. The captain laughed, but not unkindly, and leaned over to extend a hand to her. She took it and clambered up the side of the bird, pleased that he hadn’t insulted her by tossing down a rope ladder. She might not be of the High Guard any longer, but she was still an experienced sky rider and it warmed her heart to be treated like one.
Cangenhelas clicked and shook the reins, and that was enough to inspire the hawk to leap skyward. His movements were neither as graceful as Merlian’s nor as powerful as Mellt’s, but they quickly climbed into the sky above Elebrion even so, and she knew a moment’s regret as she looked back at the white buildings and the spotless streets below. Tir Diffaith would be more comfortable than the forward camp at which she’d been living for the last three months, but there would be no hot baths or refined food for the foreseeable future.
Then again, she wouldn’t be subject to a daily inquisition by her mother, so there were some benefits to living in a war zone.
They flew rapidly away from the capital mountain, and once they were clear of city walls, Cangenhelas let his hawk drop
and they flew down along the angle of the slope, just over the treetops, then leveled out just before they reached the foothills. They flew over luxurious villas, ripening vineyards, and meticulous rows of plants that Bereth couldn’t possibly identify. A flower farm caught her attention, and she waved to a young elfenwy who was on her knees amidst the riot of color, presumably weeding, who waved back.
It made her angry to think how all of this beauty and hard work would be destroyed, the vineyards burned, the houses leveled, and the flowers trampled and torn, if the prince-general could not hold at Tir Diffaith. The situation must be dire if the royal commanders were seeking her advice; what did she know about military matters behind ambushes, archery, and sky raids?
Gradually, the pretty villas gave way to farms and the small fields were replaced by bigger ones where the grains were grown. Gradually, those too gave way to forests, although the occasional building or temple could be spotted in clearings as they flew by. Some elves found flying over the forests to be tedious, but Bereth always enjoyed it.
“Look down there,” Cangenhelas called back to her.
She looked down. There was a long double column of elven troops marching below, clad in the seldom-seen green-and-white stripes of the Elebrion militia, followed by an even longer line of ox-drawn wagons. A few officers, wearing royal white, rode to the sides of the column urging it along. It was the first time in her lifetime that she could recall the militia being called out, and it was a worrisome reminder of how dangerous the situation was shaping up to be.
And all too soon, they were past them. She didn’t like to think how long it took to fly over the Great Orc’s army in comparison. The militia would help, a little, but they were far too few to make any substantive difference, especially in light of their lesser capabilities. Perhaps that was why the prince-general had decided to make his stand behind the triple walls of Tir Diffaith, where he could make better use of the relatively inexperienced reinforcements.
They passed two more smaller parties on the way, one regiment of about one hundred horse wearing the colors of one of the eastern lords, and two regiments of foot marching haphazardly behind an unfamiliar blue-and-yellow banner. A levy of some sort, she guessed, although she had no idea whose it might be. But if they looked undisciplined, at least their shields gleamed bright silver in the late afternoon sunlight.
Finally, as the sky was beginning to take on a rosy hue and the faint circle of Elder Sister could be seen low on the horizon waiting for her turn to shine, the towers of Tir Diffaith appeared in the distance.
The great eastern fortress rose from the floor of the narrow valley that provided a natural passageway into the mountains from the barren wastes of the Kurs-Magog. Unlike the shining white quartzite walls of Elebrion, it was built from dark ironstone mined from the north by dwarves, then reinforced with spells cast by generations of archmages who specialized in Thaearhudau, the magic of earth and stone. It was considered an ancient and esoteric art at the Collegium, and rather looked down upon by those who felt it was too dwarvish in nature, but as Bereth recalled from the lectures through which she’d been forced to sit, there was always an archmage-in-residence at Tir Diffaith who was responsible for maintaining its magical defenses.
The fortress was deemed impregnable, and indeed, it had never fallen. Even when the orcs had taken Kir Kalithael, they bypassed Tir Diffaith, a decision that had ultimately proved fatal to more than one orc king. It was less intended as a defense than a deterrent, and indeed, more than one orc army had turned back upon seeing the imposing sight of the fortress’s three walls, the arms of the twelve massive trebuchets that could throw massive one-tonne boulders further than any war engine, and the seven towers upon which eagle-eyed elven archers were stationed. There were more ballistae than she could easily count, and she could see at least three piles of the giant bolts they fired stacked strategically where they could be easily distributed.
The tallest tower, in the center of the fortress and three times wider than any of the others, was where they were headed. It was called the Nyth Tower and it was where the warhawks landed and were launched. It had nests for as many as ten of the big birds, although in times of war, the tops of several of the other towers were converted so that the greater portion of the High Guard could come and go without risking any peril from below.
But the problem the prince-general faced was apparent even as they approached the fortress. The vast battlements were being patrolled by a total of four elves, and with the exception of a crew working on one of the giant trebuchets, the walls were otherwise unoccupied. All the forces the High King had thrown against the Great Orc, including the High Guard as well as the royal horse and foot would barely suffice to serve the great complex as a skeleton garrison.
There were already six hawks tethered near the landing site marked out in black granite tiles. Two of them she knew; it would have been impossible not to recognize the prince-general’s monster and the other belonged to Lord Mathonwy, who commanded the largest infantry force besides the High King’s own. Cangenhelas brought them in rather faster and lower than she would have, but he was good with his bird and they landed without incident. There were two elves in plain brown tunics waiting to meet them, and they had a chain attached to the hawk’s leg ring before either Bereth or the captain managed to dismount.
“Welcome to Tir Diffaith!” one of them called cheerfully as he led the warhawk, its head bobbing a little uneasily, over to a tethering post. “Captain, the prince wants you to go directly to the smaller meeting room. He’s there with the rest of the staff.”
Cangenhelas groaned and the other elf laughed.
“What’s wrong?” Bereth asked.
“I suppose a walk will help stretch our legs after a long day in the saddle. Do you see that tower there?”
She nodded. It was the second tower to the left.
“That’s where we have to go.”
Ah. She groaned herself. Down the stairs, over, and then up again. Surely it would have been easier to simply fly over there!
“We’re not allowed to do that.” Cangenhelas shook his head, seemingly reading her mind. “The prince is very clear on that.”
It took them longer to walk down the first tower, exit it at the level of the battlements, then walk along the walls to the other one than she would have expected. A pair of guards saluted Cangenhelas and confirmed that the prince and his advisers were in the room towards which they were headed. Unfortunately for her aching legs, the map room was more than halfway up the tower and she was beginning to breathe hard by the time the captain finally exited the winding stone staircase.
“Ah, good, you’ve arrived,” the prince-general looked up from the ensorcelled map he was perusing when they entered the low-ceilinged room. He was a tall, imposing elf, and the top of his head very nearly touched the wooden beams above. “Thank you, captain.”
“Not at all, your highness.”
The prince-general turned his attention to her. He looked very much like his cousin, the High King, but whereas King Mael’s expression was inclined to arrogance and cruelty, his was more relaxed, almost serene. His eyes were the pale gold of the royal family, and his hair was long and entirely white, as befitted the highest of the High Elves. There were elves who were known to bleach their hair, or even use sorcery to whiten it, but considering the purity of his blood, Bereth had no doubt that it was natural.
“I have decided you will be my newest advisor, Bereth mer Eulenarias. I believe I have met your father. We hunted together once, many years ago. He was a fair shot with the bow, although I understand you are even better. He is well?”
“Yes, your Highness. Thank you very much. I last saw him just this morning.”
“Well and good.” He smiled and gestured towards the other elves, most of whom were at least a century older than her by the looks of it. “I suppose you may wish to understand why I have requested your transfer from the High Guard?”
“Yes, your Highness. If
it please your Highness.”
He raised a skeptical white eyebrow at her formality and sniffed in an amused manner. “I expect you are innocent of Balalwyf?”
“Your Highness?”
“One of the great tacticians of King Iomgywn’s day. And may I presume you know nothing of Linden?”
“Nothing whatsoever, your Highness.”
“That is as it should be,” he said approvingly, which mystified her. “It is meet that elfenwyd should study poetry and painting, not war. You see, every elf in this room can recite Balalwyf and Linden and Crewaldus, to say nothing of a dozen other great philosophers of war, be he Elf, Man, or Dwarf. And every elf in this room therefore knows that the answers we seek are not to be found in them, or in our collective centuries of experience in battle.”
“Why not?” she asked, too intent on understanding him to remember to address him properly.
“Because the weight of numbers involved makes it perfectly clear that we cannot defeat them in battle. Indeed, even to run the risk of meeting them in the open field is enough to flirt with complete disaster. We are too few. Too few by far.”
“What do you expect from me?”
“Ideas!” he said, with a cheerful sparkle in his golden eyes. “New ideas, the sorts of things that would not occur to us, ossified as we are by our collective millennia of knowledge concerning the way things are supposed to be.”
“Like the poison spell,” one of the elves wearing a blue tabard with a silver cat head on it added. “Poisoning water supplies is nothing new, but the use of a time-delay to evade the goblins testing it was clever. It’s not just the idea itself that’s useful, you see, but the fact that it opens up whole new lines of tactics.”
“The problem is that we have little time, very little time,” the prince-general said. “We need to come up with some new ideas to whittle them down, quickly, before we’re forced to fall back behind the walls.”
“Whittle them down to what?” she asked.
“About two-thirds their present numbers.”