Blade of Empire Read online

  Despite the disappointment, Hamphuliadiel forced himself to be optimistic. When the news of Vieliessar’s triumph reached the west, those who now sheltered within the castels and manor houses would seek out the stability and safety Hamphuliadiel could offer. Prudent folk: Castellans, Farmholders, the better sort of servant. Their skills could lighten the crushing burden of charity Hamphuliadiel felt it his duty to extend. Who knew what great things the springtide might bring for … Areve?

  No, he told himself. I need no Foretelling of the Silver Hooves to show me my course. Let Vieliessar destroy the Hundred Houses. All they once were, all they may once again be, shall be born anew. Here. In Areve.

  He turned his steps back toward the Sanctuary with a lighter heart.

  * * *

  The reports of the Battle of the Shieldwall Plain that came to the Windsward were incomplete and unbelievable. The High Houses broken. Caerthalien erased. Forbidden magic used on the battlefield. A fortress raised in a day and destroyed in an instant by its own defenders. Thousands—tens of thousands—of komen slaughtered. The news was so enormous, so shocking, that Lightborn all across the Windsward pooled all they knew.

  The most unbelievable thing of all was the one thing everyone agreed upon.

  Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor was no myth. Vieliessar High King had done what she had said she would do: she had found the Unicorn Throne and set herself upon it.

  Vieliessar Farcarinon was High King.

  “If she is High King, then she is Child of the Prophecy,” Gonceivis said doggedly. “And what of that?”

  This gathering was held in a far more private chamber than the one the moonturn before. In Storm Moon, Gonceivis had expected eventually to hear of Vieliessar’s defeat, or that both armies had been destroyed, or simply that Vieliessar had fled to some secret stronghold. Now that she had won, Gonceivis had no intention of surrendering Haldil, but Haldil’s rebellion had begun on the same pretext as Vieliessar’s war. If Amretheon’s Prophecy were more than a convenient rallying point for those who wished to throw off the oppressive yoke of the High Houses of the Western Reach, Gonceivis must know. For that reason, he’d summoned both his Loremaster and his Chief Storysinger to this very private meeting of his ruling court.

  “Of course, you are speaking of the Great Darkness that will extinguish all life,” Darothel Loremaster said. His reply was a sulfurous glare from his master. “That, of course, depends on the Prophecy being true in every particular.”

  “It’s a prophecy,” Gonceivis said in exasperation. He gazed toward the tiny slit window. Six sennights to the start of Flower Moon, and soon after that, the passes would open. And who—or what—would come from the West? “How can just part of a prophecy be true?”

  “The Song of Amretheon—” Mirwathel Storysinger began.

  “Oh, by all means, let us have a song,” Ladyholder Belviel said. “Perhaps it will tell us what course we should follow.”

  Mirwathel was too wise to take her up on her suggestion. “I only mean to say, my lord, my lady, that The Song of Amretheon is very, very long. It is not really a song at all. It is more … a library of songs.”

  “So some of it isn’t true?” Lord Ranruth asked in hopeful tones.

  “None of it is true,” Ladyholder Belviel said flatly. Othrochel Lightbrother looked pained.

  “If I may, Lord Gonceivis,” Aenthior Swordmaster said, “the Prophecy may well be true in every detail. But not … explicit.”

  “A code?” Gonceivis said, grasping for something he understood.

  Aenthior smiled. “A code. Precisely. And a very old one, to which we have lost the key. But consider. We will grant that it gave a precise time for the birth of the Child of Prophecy—a time at which many children were born, including the late and much mourned Demi-Prince Malbeth. Celelioniel Astromancer knew both Lord Vieliessar’s birth hour and her lineage, and just as clearly knew this Child of Prophecy must belong to one of the Lines Direct. Lord Vieliessar is Lightborn, and so had ample time to study the Prophecy and shape her ambitions to it.”

  “Is. It. True?” Gonceivis demanded.

  “Does it matter, my lord father?” Heir-Prince Paramarth asked. “What if it is? Darkness—monsters—rivers of blood—How is any of that different from the battles we of the Windsward fight every Wheelturn? If the Prophecy is true in every detail, let the High King fight this fabulous peril with her great array. If it is not true, let her rule her vast Kingdom in the west. It cannot matter to us.”

  Ladyholder Belviel wandered over to the xaique board beneath the narrow window and began rearranging the pieces, naming them as she did.

  “The twenty Houses of the Windsward—Artholor, Calwas, Enerchelimier, Kerethant, Penenjil, Morgelian, Yoncividiant—for her. That’s seven. Antanaduk, Cazagamba, Narazan, Rutharban—say neither yes nor no. Four. Hallorad maintains its eternal neutrality, of course. Leaving…”

  “Andhirra, Jirvaleg, Parvochost, Ethrandeb, Dontreis, Helenneis, and Bethros. I can count, Madame. Seven and Haldil,” Gonceivis said.

  “To lead them,” Ladyholder Belviel answered. “And to convince Antanaduk, Cazagamba, Narazan, and Rutharban that the lion at one’s walls is a more urgent matter than a wolf in the forest.”

  “Penenjil is already on the march, and Enerchelimier surely follows as swift as she may,” Ranruth said. “But I have never heard tell of the whole of a domain going to war. Their people will seek protection.”

  “And they will find it here,” Gonceivis announced grandly. “Haldil is known by all to be a kind master, generous and strong.”

  “Just as you say, my lord,” Aenthior said. She glanced toward Othrochel. “The summer will bring joyous celebration, when for the first time in many centuries, all the Lightborn Haldil has sent to the Sanctuary of the Star may return to her freely.”

  Silence fell.

  “You really are an idiot,” Prince Paramarth said flatly. “Do you think anybody is going to the Sanctuary of the Star this spring?”

  * * *

  When word of the High King’s victory came, Prince Leopheine Amrolion reckoned the sunturns and moonturns until aid could reach the Western Shore, and then resolved that he must seek aid from a closer source. And so his daughter had set out from Amrolion in Storm Moon with a full embassy of both rangers and komen to make Amrolion’s petition to the Sanctuary of the Star. The embassy had gone armed and armored for war, but many of its members had been lost to Beastling attacks in Delfierarathadan Flower Forest before it had even reached Cirandeiron’s western border.

  In Cirandeiron, instead of welcome, Ciadorre and her people found a ghostlands, and even Ulvearth’s Green Robe could not gain the party guest-rights at the Great Keep. By the time they had been a moonturn on the road, they had been reduced to four, traveling only with Ciadorre’s arming page and Ulvearth’s body servant.

  But at last they had reached the Sanctuary of the Star.

  “How long are we to wait?” Princess Ciadorre asked. This was her first visit to the Sanctuary of the Star, but Ulvearth had said much during their travels of what she expected to find here—and more, when they arrived, on what she found changed. The Guesthouse should be filled with travelers and bustling servants, even in Flower Moon. The Sanctuary should be filled with petitioners to the Shrine and invalids coming to be Healed. And both were nearly deserted.

  “Until we are sent for,” her companion answered mildly. “Do not ask me to number the candlemarks of our wait, my lady. The ways of the Sanctuary have changed much since Inderundiel Astromancer’s day.” Ulvearth Lightsister folded her arms and stood as if she never intended to move again.

  “I am a princess of Amrolion’s Line Direct, you know,” Ciadorre said, her gentle smile making it clear this was a jest shared between friends. She frowned at the closed door of the Astromancer’s Audience Chamber. “If Hamphuliadiel Astromancer was called to more pressing duties, I do not see why you and I could not have waited in the Guesthouse until he was free to receive ou
r embassy. At least there are places to sit there. And a fire.”

  “You have grown proud since we left home, if you expect a seat and a fire wherever you go,” Ulvearth answered gently.

  Ciadorre made a wry face and resumed her pacing. Four steps up. Four steps back. The tiny antechamber outside the Astromancer’s Audience Chamber held nothing to welcome either eye or body. Perhaps Ulvearth is right and I have grown proud, Ciadorre thought. But I am no hedge-knight come to beg a midwife for his lady! And my need is urgent! “We have traveled as homeless as the hare in spring since the doors of my father’s keep closed behind us, and—” Ciadorre broke off as the doors opened.

  “The Astromancer will receive you now,” the Lightbrother said.

  “It is good to see you once more, Orchalianiel,” Ulvearth said mildly. “I hope I find you well?”

  The Lightbrother ducked his head and did not reply.

  Ciadorre forced herself not to react as they entered. The chamber was as long as the hall in a Great Keep, though narrow. The effect was to focus the eye upon the ornate ivory chair at the far end—if one could take one’s attention away from the clutter of cabinets and tables and statuary that lined its walls. The floor was visible only in narrow bands between carpets of price, and the walls were hung with so many tapestries that they overlapped one upon the other like blankets on washing day. So the Astromancer holds court in a storage room, Ciadorre thought scornfully. Even as she framed the thought, she knew it was untrue. The Astromancer brooded over his treasures as a Gryphon over her nest. This display was meant to impress.

  The grand chair Hamphuliadiel sat in was one that Ciadorre recognized as coming from Amrolion, for its twin stood at the high table in her father’s great hall. Some long-ago prince must have felt a great need to curry favor with the Sanctuary. Ciadorre could hardly imagine how they’d gotten the enormous thing through Delfierarathadan, let alone across the Angarussa. When she reached its foot, Ciadorre had to look up to meet the Astromancer’s eyes, and suppressed another pang of irritation. He enthrones himself as if he would be High King himself!

  “Hamphuliadiel Astromancer,” she said. “Amrolion and Daroldan send their greetings.”

  “Do they?” Hamphuliadiel said. “Do they also send their customary tithes, Princess Ciadorre? Or have you come to bring their excuses?”

  “Amrolion might send excuses—did send them—by Ulvearth Lightsister alone,” Ciadorre answered tartly. “I have come to speak of a different matter.”

  “Speak, then.”

  Ulvearth touched her arm before Ciadorre could tell Hamphuliadiel she was no hedge-komen to be ordered about. “I will come to the point at once,” Ciadorre said, “The Western Shore is at war. The Beastlings press us harder than they have in centuries. Our folk cannot tend their fields nor graze their beasts. Our fisherfolk dare not set their nets for fear of what they will draw up in them. Already my father and War Prince Damulothir speak of Amrolion abandoning her lands to join her people with Daroldan’s. Without aid, such a thing must surely be. And so I am come to beg for the Sanctuary’s help.”

  In the silence that followed her speech, Ciadorre was acutely conscious of the wrongness of all of this. It was true that the Sanctuary of the Star was a thing of importance in the land, and the position of Astromancer was one of great power. But the look in Hamphuliadiel’s eye was that of a komen who would turn upon an enemy, not that of the Astromancer upon a supplicant.

  “What help could the Sanctuary of the Star render to House Amrolion?” Hamphuliadiel said at last.

  “If you were to send your Lightborn to fight beside ours, Astromancer, it would help a great deal,” Ciadorre said. “Vieliessar High King—”

  “Ah, the great High King,” Hamphuliadiel said with a cold smile. “She for whom the very Landbonds rise up and fight. You are her vassals?”

  “Both Daroldan and Amrolion pledged to her last Thunder Moon. We made no secret of it,” Ciadorre answered, puzzled. “Daroldan and Amrolion were never held in clientage by any of the High Houses, so we broke no oaths in doing so. But the High King is far from here, and—”

  “And now you have found that her vast power is not so vast that she can protect you,” Hamphuliadiel interrupted her once more. “No doubt more important matters occupy her time. Very well. The Sanctuary will aid you. At a price, of course.”

  Ciadorre risked a quick glance at her companion, but could read nothing in Ulvearth Lightsister’s face. Am I expected to bargain as if the Lightborn are some Free Company? “You will not find us ungenerous in our gratitude,” she said cautiously.

  “Gratitude!” Hamphuliadiel said sharply. “I am awash in gratitude already. This is my word to Amrolion and Daroldan both: renounce your false oaths to Vieliessar Farcarinon. Pledge fealty to the Sanctuary of the Star. And you will receive your aid.”

  Ciadorre stared at him in stunned silence.

  “This is a most generous offer, Astromancer,” Ulvearth Lightsister said smoothly. “You must allow us to return to Amrolion to present it to Prince Leopheine as quickly as we may.”

  “Sunalanthaid?” Hamphuliadiel said.

  There was movement to the side of the Astromancer’s great chair. Ciadorre realized with a pang of disquiet that the Lightbrother had been standing there all along—she simply had not noticed him.

  “Such an offer will be rejected, Lord Astromancer,” Sunalanthaid answered simply. “The Lady Ciadorre thinks you arrogant and mad. Ulvearth Lightsister is merely afraid.”

  “How dare you open my mind with Magery?” Ciadorre gasped in outrage. “Lightborn, you overstep yourself!”

  “By your own High King’s word, the time of lord and komen is past,” Hamphuliadiel said. “Do you deny what my Sunalanthaid has told me?”

  “No,” Ciadorre said slowly. “I do not.”

  Ulvearth reached out a hand to silence her, and Ciadorre shrugged it off angrily. “It is true. More than that, you are a fool, Astromancer. If the Western Shore falls to the Beastlings, they will be at the walls of your fine new town before you can bring in your harvest. And will you then—”

  “Be silent!” Hamphuliadiel cried.

  Ciadorre drew breath to speak and found she could not. For the first time since she’d reached Sanctuary lands, she was afraid. Hamphuliadiel Astromancer meant to play the War Prince. She had delivered herself into the hands of an enemy.

  “Look to your High King for aid,” Hamphuliadiel said softly. “You will not receive it here. And now you may leave us.”

  Against her will, Ciadorre found herself turning away and walking back down the long stretch of carpet. The Lightbrother who had opened the door before opened it again. Ulvearth Lightsister was not beside her, but no matter what she did, Ciadorre could not stop or even look behind her. It was not until she reached the entry hall of the cold and untended Guesthouse that her body was her own again, and she nearly sobbed aloud with relief. The only mercy in any of this was that there was no one to witness her shame. The only folk she had seen aside from the Astromancer and his … courtiers … were the laborers and herdsmen.

  “Lady Ciadorre?” Nindir asked. She was Ulvearth’s personal servant.

  “Get Alras,” Ciadorre said. “Tell her to go to the stables and have our horses made ready at once. We are leaving.”

  “Now, my lady?” Nindir asked, astonished. “It is the middle of the day.” It was no time to begin a journey of any length, particularly in these days, but Ciadorre was now deeply reluctant to spend a candlemark more than she must in Hamphuliadiel Astromancer’s new domain.

  “We go now,” Ciadorre said. “Pack our things while I wait.”

  It was a greater effort than she’d imagined to turn her steps toward the stairs that led to her guest chamber. There, she sank down on a bench. The fire was nearly cold.

  I must arm, she told herself dully, gazing at her armor where it lay awaiting her. We must ride. I will not face what comes without my sword.

  * * *

  She
had barely managed to don her aketon and begun to lace it when Alras returned. The young arming page stepped forward and took the laces from her hands.

  “I have been to the stables,” Alras said. “Radanding Stablemaster says it is the Astromancer’s word that our horses are to be taken as part of Amrolion’s sanctuary tithe.”

  Four riding palfreys, two pack horses and … “He cannot mean to take Cariel as well!” Ciadorre said. “She is a warhorse, not a palfrey!”

  Alras looked at the floor and did not answer.

  Ciadorre took a deep breath. She had raised Cariel from foalhood and the destrier was dear to her. I must imagine her slain by outlaws, she told herself firmly. I dare not tarry in hopes of reclaiming her. “Come and help me out of this again,” she said, forcing a smile for Alras’s benefit. “I cannot walk the whole way home in my armor. Then we will go through our packs and see what we can bring with us, for we must go afoot.”

  “Is the Lightsister to accompany us?” Alras asked quietly.

  “We will hope so,” Ciadorre answered bleakly.

  * * *

  Ulvearth Lightsister had not returned by the time Ciadorre was ready to depart. Ciadorre hesitated, then bade Nindir remain and await her mistress.

  “It is possible that even now she persuades the Astromancer to send aid to the Western Shore,” Ciadorre said, feigning a confidence she did not feel. “And she would miss you, were I to steal you away.” At least the Sanctuary would not be strange to Nindir—like nearly all the personal servants of the Lightborn, Nindir had been Called to the Light and done her Service Year at the Sanctuary of the Star before she had been sent back to Amrolion.

  “But surely you cannot mean to set out on foot, my lady?” Nindir said in disbelief.

  “How else, when the Astromancer claims my destrier and Alras’s palfrey?” Ciadorre said. “Perhaps I may find another mount upon my journey.” Unlikely though that was: Farcarinon had been a wasteland since before Ciadorre was born, Ullilion, which lay to its west, had been desolated by last summer’s fighting, and Cirandeiron—as all three of them well knew—would give no haven.