The War Pavilion was Shielded by the conjoined spells of a thousand Lightborn. No spell could be worked within it, no listener could eavesdrop upon it, no blade could pierce its fabric, no fire could burn it.
No sound could penetrate its walls.
But even its labyrinth of bespellings was not proof against the shaking of the earth that came in the darkest candlemark of night. Cups fell from tables. Tent pegs worked free of the earth, until the gold fabric hung limply from its wooden framework and the slender shafts creaked alarmingly. It took candlemarks to restore order in the camp, and it was not until dawn that they understood what had happened.
The distant cliff was no longer a seamless unblemished sweep of stone.
There was a pass.
For the next six days, as the army advanced, the Alliance Lightborn attacked the High King’s keep. They scoured the ground with winds that ripped the grass from the soil and the soil from the stone beneath. They struck the cliff face with Thunderbolts until the vitrified stone glittered like ice. Waterspouts ripped from underground rivers spun across the gutted land, turning the churned earth to mud. Hyperborean winds turned mud to ice. Fire seared the very air, turning ice to steam, turning steam to blinding blizzards that left the walls of Vieliessar’s fortress drifted high with snow.
The fortress itself was untouched, and on the evening of the sixth day, there was no more prairie to cross.
“This is madness!” Sedreret Aramenthiali said, when the War Council had gathered once more. “We have achieved nothing!”
“Oh, I hardly think it is nothing,” Consort-Prince Irindandirion of Cirandeiron said, fanning himself languidly. “It is entertaining, after all.”
“And useless!” Sedreret snapped. Bolecthindial found himself wishing for his old enemy’s return. Manderechiel had been a bloody-minded brigand, but he’d never belabored the obvious.
Dead. Like Jaeglenhend, Mangiralas, Araphant, Ingelthendragir, and half the Houses of the Uradabhur.
“What do you suggest, Lord Sedreret?” Edheleorn Telthorelandor asked. “With a pass through the Southern Wall available to her, we must assume Vieliessar retreats through it. Once she has accomplished that, she has won. Or do you mean you will send Aramenthiali into such a killing box—in the event her walls fall?”
“I am saddened to hear such … prudence … from your lips, Lord Edelhorn,” Dormorothon said, the twist of her lips indicating she meant another word entirely. “My son is correct: we have thrown the whole power of our Lightborn against her fortress and done nothing but make a waste of the land. And what shall we do tomorrow? We are within the shadow of her walls. Do we ask her politely to ride forth and give battle?”
“I’m surprised you dare rebuke us, Lightsister, when the failure is yours,” Girelain Cirandeiron said silkily. “The walls were raised by Magery. The pass created by Magery. Yet your own spells have been … surprisingly ineffective.”
“How dare you so insult my lady mother?” Sedreret demanded, rising to his feet. “I demand—”
“Aramenthiali demands?” Girelain asked in feigned disbelief, her lips curved in a chill smile. “I did not know you had such a sense of humor, Lord Sedreret.”
Bolecthindial rose to his feet. Around him, conversation died.
“Call me,” he said heavily, “when you have discovered something that will work.”
He turned and strode from the tent.
Runacarendalur was waiting for Bolecthindial when he reached his pavilion. He was sprawled in Bolecthindial’s favorite chair, a cup of wine in his hand. He did not rise to his feet when his father entered.
“I am in no mood for your whining tonight,” Bolecthindial snapped. No servant came forward to take his cloak. The servants had been running off or dying for moonturns now—to the point where the komen diced for pavilion servants instead of gold—and even Bolecthindial’s household was a shadow of what it had been half a year before.
He dropped the garment on the floor and glared, but Runacarendalur did not move. If it were anyone else, Bolecthindial would have punished such insolence with his sword, but it seemed to him almost as if Runacarendalur had courted death for sennights. He would not oblige him.
“No?” Runacarendalur asked. “Then what of my counsel?”
“What counsel can you offer?”
“Better than your War Council,” Runacarendalur said, and despite himself, Bolecthindial laughed sharply.
“I shall have you flogged.”
“Do,” Runacarendalur invited. “But Heal me afterward, for you will need me to lead your meisne into battle. She will fight—and soon.”
“You’re insane,” Bolecthindial said. “Why should she fight when she has somewhere to run to?”
“Because she means to be High King,” Runacarendalur said evenly.
Bolecthindial looked around. He frowned anew at the absence of servants, then walked to the sideboard and selected a cup and a bottle before settling into a chair. “That is hardly fresh news,” he said as he filled his cup.
“Perhaps not,” Runacarendalur said. “But it is information you have all chosen to disregard. She flees, you follow, nothing changes. She must offer battle and force your surrender. Until the Houses gathered here have pledged fealty to her, she has not won.”
“So she will fight,” Bolecthindial said in disbelief. “When?”
“As soon as she can,” Runacarendalur said, as if it was obvious.
“She’s done nothing but run since Jaeglenhend.”
“And a costly flight—to us—that proved to be. It is not running, Father, when you are traveling to your chosen battlefield.”
Bolecthindial regarded him measuringly. He had seen such despair before, but only in the face of a vanquished enemy. “Go to bed, my son,” he said with surprising gentleness. “Tomorrow, we begin our siege.”
He was wrong.
INTERLUDE FOUR
INVASION AND INFAMY
Mist rose over the surface of the blood in the obsidian bowl. With the Obsidian Mirror shattered beyond re-creation, Virulan had to find new ways of seeing beyond The World Without Sun. This one combined business and pleasure.
He gazed at the images of blood and slaughter forming within the mist and smiled, baring gleaming fangs. The Elflings were so proud of their armies, of the skill of their warriors. Virulan knew the truth. Skill was meaningless when confronted with power.
The dainty banquet of death was a pretty sight nonetheless.
“They are so confident,” he murmured aloud. “Century upon century, they have bred like the vermin they are, refining their arts of war, believing themselves the greatest power in their world. They slaughter brother, sister, their own children. They make war upon those creatures whose lands they have claimed. And they look to a time when they will be victorious over all. But that time will never come.”
And best of all, a faint echo of true Darkness had found a home within their hearts. He had watched, gleefully, as fear and ambition caused them to cast aside the rules of chivalry by which they had lived for so long, watched as expediency tempted them to commit greater and greater atrocities. Only the Elfling Mages had stood aside from that rush to infamy.
Until now.
Now, at last, one of the Elfling Mages had followed his brethren down their twisted path. Anger and cheated ambition had gnawed at his soul since childhood, and slowly—oh, so slowly—it had led him to … compromise. From the moment Virulan had found the Elfling, drawn by the sweet scent of moral rot, he had watched avidly as Ivrulion of Caerthalien made bargain after bargain with himself.