Her vassals, all. Just as she was vassal to the land itself.
“I have this night discovered the path to our destination,” she said.
“A destination is always a useful thing,” Rithdeliel said calmly. “I hope there are stores of grain there. And wine.”
“Of these matters I know not,” Vieliessar said, “but I know our victory lies within Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor, and there I will lead us.”
“Grand words fit for a wondertale,” Thoromarth grumbled. “But say if you will, Vieliessar High King, where it is you would bid us have your army go?”
“South,” Vieliessar answered. “South, and south again, until we reach the end of the world.”
And its beginning.
Thurion’s presence was a gift. The news he brought was fresh: Penenjil and Enerchelimier had managed to reach Oblivion Gate in time to pass through to the Arzhana; Melchienchiel Penenjil had sent the Silver Swords on ahead, with Thurion to guide them. He had expected trouble in the Nantirworiel Pass, for if Methothiel Nantirworiel had not taken the field, he had certainly chosen his allegiance. But if Methothiel was for the Alliance, his meisne was not—since his father’s time, Foxhaven Free Company had been sword and shield to Nantirworiel. Thurion did not know their fate, or Methothiel’s. All he knew was that the pass had been clear of snow—and utterly deserted.
But welcome as Thurion’s presence was, he remained only three days before bidding her farewell.
“I do not wish to be away from Master Kemmiaret overlong,” he said. “And besides, I am needed to lead the Silver Swords to your side. Utheleres is as yet untroubled by battle, and we can find provision and shelter all the way to Lurathonion Flower Forest. Once we cross the southern border, I shall come to you again, to be certain we do not lose our way.”
“For that I am grateful,” Vieliessar said. “And for Penenjil’s grace in making such a journey in winter.”
“As to that, I think Penenjil has been privy to more of Celelioniel’s learning than any of us know,” Thurion answered. “I could wish … they knew the whole of it.”
“I do not think even Amrethion Aradruiniel knew the whole,” Vieliessar answered. “Go with the Light, my friend.”
“And you, my king,” Thurion answered gravely.
South and south again.
It was odd to look upon a place and have no name to call it by, for every stone and forest and meadow within the Fortunate Lands had a name. For a sennight her people made a game of it, vying with one another to coin the most outlandish and ornate name. Enemy’s Doom. Icetrees Forest. Smoketree Reach. But at last they settled on a simple one: Janubaghir. Southern forest.
Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor was the first thing in Vieliessar’s thoughts each dawn, the last thing she saw behind closed eyelids at night. It drew her like a needle to the lodestone, and her army followed where she led. As Snow Moon drew to a close, she and every Lightborn in her force felt the Alliance cross the Niothramangh bounds to follow them.
The Alliance Lightborn drew instantly upon the bounty of Janglanipaikharain and moved immediately to the attack—and Vieliessar’s Lightborn to the defense—but whatever their calls upon its Light, that Light still seemed inexhaustible. All along the line of march, storms quarreled and fought through the sky as the Alliance sent storms to harry them and the Warhunt sent them away again. Limitless Light had the same effect as none: the two armies fled and followed and little else was changed.
As Cold Moon gave way to Ice Moon, Vieliessar’s force reached the southern border of Janubaghir. The stars and the sun told them they were far to the south of lands any of them knew: Lord Gatriadde thought they might even be south of Mangiralas’s southern border, and Mangiralas extended furthest into the south of any of the domains of the West. In the far distance, the Bazrahil Range was visible, and before it, a plain that stretched on as far as the eye could see.
Someone named the southern plain Ifjalasairaet—wind and dust.
The land was flat as a tabletop. The Alliance army was a bare fortnight behind them when they reached the southern plain, and Magery swirled about both armies, its tides thick enough to choke any who could perceive the Light. The war had become a war of Lightborn, as each side attempted to discover a way to use Janglanipaikharain’s power to gain advantage over the other—and if they could not, to exhaust its Light so that this became a war of komen and destrier once more.
Never had anyone witnessed—or performed—such a profligacy of spellcraft. Vieliessar’s army had come to Ifjalasairaet a thing of rags and patches, privation and rationing. Now each suit of armor, every pavilion and rope, had been Restored until it might have come that instant from the hands of the craftworkers. Every injury, no matter how slight, was made whole. Wells were sunk into the earth each time the army stopped, striking deep until they overflowed with cold pure water, enough for all who thirsted to drink their fill. Transmutation turned water to cider, to beer, to milk, to wine. Spells of multiplication, taught against days of dire famine, turned a handful of grain to a wagonload, an apple to an orchard, a scrap of dried beef to a succulent feast for thousands. Faded colors of surcoat and pavilion grew bright, destriers and their riders grew fat. The night watches blazed, not with Silverlight, but with honest warming flame against a plain turned lush and green out of season.
And here, at last, the plan Vieliessar had set in motion in Oronviel’s Great Hall bore fruit. Her army was her future empire in miniature: Lightborn, Landbond, and Lord united as one in her name. It was an army of refugees, of renegades, runaways, outlaws, exiles, of all who had cast off the old ways to search for something … better. Of War Princes who yearned for peace. Of Lightborn who had embraced the field of battle.
In armies the size of the two which opposed each other here, even ten thousand Lightborn would not make much difference to the outcome of the battle yet to be fought.
But ten thousand Lightborn who were free …
The Alliance horded the Lightborn spellcraft among its lords, using their Magery to protect themselves from servants they had come to distrust. They expended Janglanipaikharain’s power and their Lightborn’s strength on attacks that experience had already shown them were futile. And day by day they closed the distance, as if the sight of Vieliessar’s army goaded her enemy into doing the impossible.
And still Vieliessar led them south.
They were but a sennight behind her when Vieliessar’s force at last reached a barrier it could not pass.
She and a few others rode far ahead of the vanguard, across a plain whose spring-lush grass, withering in the cold, was already dusted with fresh snow. Her army stretched out behind her, mile upon mile, marching within a shimmering haze of Shield: all the folk of every domain she had claimed, whether by force of arms or peaceful surrender, all who had fled to her for sanctuary. She knew what she must find to save them, yet in the clear merciless light of day, Ifjalasairaet’s Wall stretched unbroken as far as the eye could see. She reined Snapdragon to a halt and gazed at the cliff face in silence.
“Are you sure this is…?” Iardalaith said beside her, his voice pitched for her alone.
“I am,” she answered. “Amrethion’s city lies beyond this cliff.”
How will we reach it? She could hear Iardalaith’s question as if he had spoken it aloud, but she had no answer for him. Her spell had found the city. She had never wondered if there were an entrance to it. We can hold this ground until Janglanipaikharain is exhausted. Then we must fight. And starve. And die.