The children of He Who Is were bound by the laws of time and matter, and even His vast power could not create-in that realm-a sorcery that did not require payment. Their power came from the pain and fear of their victims and from the anguish and despair of their victims' deaths. Each spell they cast was paid for in the blood and suffering of others.

The Endarkened wouldn't have it any other way.

The Endarkened never left witnesses to any of their hunts, nor any sign a hunt had occurred, by King Virulan's decree. He did not intend his people's prey to suspect the existence of their hunters until the day his preparations were complete, and his legions rose up out of the earth to begin their slaughter.

But his people must have slaves, and food, and entertainment, and so they ranged across the world.

Hunting.

To the ranks of their shambling, bestial courtiers, they added slaves from every realm in the Bright World: Centaurs, Minotaurs, Gryphons, Bearwards, Hippogriffs, Aesalions, Elves, and more. Each provided special delights to the Endarkened. It was their greatest delight to capture any of the Winged Ones, to drag them beneath the earth, to rip the wings from their bodies. The Winged Ones never lasted, but their suffering was beautiful to their enslavers.

Those creatures of deep forest were nearly as fragile. Bearwards pined for the cool green life that was taken from them. Fauns died quickly of grief. Pixies and fairies, trapped away from their fields of flowers, starved slowly, their bodies glowing beautifully in their death agonies.

Centaurs and Minotaurs lasted much longer, prized by the Endarkened as much for their strength as for the torture they could withstand.

But the greatest prize in any Endarkened slave hunt was the Elves.

The Elvenkind were hard to take without suspicion. The creatures called themselves alfaljodthi-Children of Stars-and their shape was a mockery of Endarkened beauty. Their skin was grub-pale. Their long pointed ears only made more obvious the lack of beautiful golden horns. Their mouths were filled with stubby pointed teeth, their toes and fingers were blunt and soft. They had neither wings nor tails.

But they were durable-as much as any Brightworlder was-and they suffered beautifully.

The first Elves the Endarkened took as slaves cried out to Aradhwain the Mare, and wept for their herds, and the vast openness of the Goldengrass. Time passed in the Bright World, and the new Elven captives lamented for their beautiful palaces among The Teeth of the Moon, and cried out to Manafaeren Law Lord to deliver them. Time passed, and they cried out to Amrethion and Pelashia, to the Sword-Giver and the Bride of Battles, to the Starry Hunt.

None of their Brightworld powers saved them.

And Virulan had been confident none of them ever would.

"What is your name, little Elfling?" Rugashag purred. The Royal Consort's eyes glowed gold with anticipation; her scarlet skin was flushed brilliant with lust. All around her, King Virulan's favored courtiers murmured in anticipation of the treat about to be presented.

The captive's face was contorted with terror-for Rugashag had been careful to bring him to the Heart of Darkness by a way that made him fully aware of the horrors of his fate-but there was no other mark on him. Rugashag had found him in the western reaches of the Goldengrass, and followed him carefully for a long time to be certain he could be taken in secret. The Elfling had been so concerned with hiding from his race's many enemies that he had not noticed one more hunter.

Fool, Virulan thought.

Rugashag had brought him directly to the Heart of Darkness, knowing King Virulan took special pleasure in watching new captives' realization of their fate. He knew that she hoped by these shows of submission to lull him to the point she could destroy him. He cherished each spark of her futile rebellion, just as he had from the beginning. One day-if he grew bored enough-he would end it.

"What are you?" the Elfling whispered, his voice shaking with beautiful terror.

"We are death and pain and darkness. We are your masters," Virulan said, smiling hideously. "Kneel."

Virulan rose to his feet, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. He had grown used to the stink of soil and sun upon the flesh of new slaves over the centuries. But this was ... different.

Irritating.

"No!" the Elfling shouted. He flung himself away from Rugashag, the tatters of his green robes swirling about his limbs. "I will never serve you! Never!"

Rugashag laughed mockingly, spreading her wings and baring her fangs.

The stink Virulan had sensed grew stronger. He took a step forward.

"The simplest spell..." the Elfling whispered. Tears glittered in his eyes.

And then his body erupted in flame.

The Endarkened sprang back in surprise, though mere flame had no power to harm them. The captive began to scream in agony, and the sweetness of the sound held Virulan transfixed for a fatal moment. By the time he doused the flame with a spell, the captive was dead.

"I swear to you, my king, I would never-" Rugashag babbled, throwing herself to the floor in terror. No one else in the chamber dared to move so much as a wing.

"Magic," Uralesse hissed. "The maggot-things have magic."

"Yessss..." King Virulan said broodingly. "It is weak, compared to ours. But you did not know that when you brought me this Elven Mage, did you, my dear Rugashag?"

"I swear to you- My king- I swear-" she babbled, scrabbling backward, her mouth hanging open in horror.

"Indeed you do," Virulan said. "Let us see what else you will swear-with the proper inducement."

He gestured languidly, and two of the Lesser Endarkened came to bear his consort away.

His former consort.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE WAY OF THE SWORD.

A commander is often faced with two bad choices and no good ones. One gains the victory by concealing that truth from the enemy.

-Arilcarion War-Maker, Of the Sword Road For days Vieliessar's dreams had been troubled, filled with the clash of swords, the screams of the dying, images of a vast battlefield upon which thousands fought. When she drifted from sleep to waking, it took her long moments to realize that the sounds had followed her into wakefulness.

No battle should come here! she thought, scrambling through the narrow tunnel of her sleeping-place into the clearing. But that was custom, not law. Only the Sanctuary itself was sacrosanct. She kilted up the skirts of her green robe and ran toward the sound. She must see.

When she reached the edge of the Forest and looked out over the winter-bare fields of Rosemoss Farm, she saw that the fields were as yet unplowed and the snow that lay on them was patchy and thin. Empty. The sky was clouded, the air was heavy and wet, and she could smell woodsmoke. Somewhere a dog barked.

There is no battle, she told herself in exasperation. I have mistaken dreams for Farseeing, nothing more.

She was about to turn back into the trees when she saw a bright flash in the distance: pale sunlight on armor. She heard shouting and the mellow, demanding call of warhorns. A moment later she felt the faint trembling of the ground as it resounded to the beat of hooves. Destriers. Many of them.

The first of the riders thundered into view. She saw the white-and-silver of Penenjil-the grey stallions marking their riders as the feared Silver Swords of Penenjil, never defeated in battle-the tawny and gold of Enerchelimier, the tawny and marron of Calwas.

But the Silver Swords of Penenjil never ride to battle outside Penenjil's lands-and Calwas has never made alliance with Enerchelimier in all the history of the Hundred Houses!

She barely had time to form her thought before their pursuers became visible. Purple and gold: Haldil, its House colors almost indistinguishable from the tawny and marron of Calwas. Deep blue and green: Bethros, barely distinguishable at this distance from Hallorad's green on green. She knew the colors and blazons of all the Hundred-and she knew Haldil and Bethros to be enemies as often as allies.

There were perhaps a dozen who fled, and twice that number pursuing. When they reached the open field, the fleeing komen wheeled their destriers and stood to battle.

Vieliessar had read hundreds of songs of great battles but had never seen one. As if she were a songsmith, she marked how the bright blood slicked the silver blades, how droplets seemed to trail in the air after a blow. She heard the hard dull sound, like an axe upon wood, as a sword struck through armor into flesh, the high, ringing bell sound when it struck shield or blade instead. She saw destriers, mortally wounded, unhorse enemy knights and batter them to death upon the frozen ground, then fall, screaming in rage and pain as they disemboweled themselves in their frantic attempts to stand. Steam curled skyward from open wounds, as if the battlefield was afire. Blood pooled upon the earth and the thick metal scent of it filled the air.

Against all expectation, more wearing the colors of Bethros and Haldil fell than those they sought to slay, for the knights of Penenjil, Enerchelimier, and Calwas fought as if they were demented, drunk on the very blood they spilled. Vieliessar saw a knight of Calwas fling himself from his destrier's saddle as it fell, grab the tack of a riderless mount caparisoned in Penenjil colors, and drag himself to its back.

This is what you were born for, she thought, even as she flinched at the screams of the wounded. This implacable conviction was a terrible, aching weight in her chest, the sight before her both horrible and exciting. Once she had dreamed of fighting upon such a battlefield. Then she had been trained to care for its survivors. There will be no survivors today, she thought. This was no formal combat, where the injured could throw down their swords and ride back to their own lines if they could not fight on. The knights upon the field before her would fight until they died.

And this-even this-might be some trick to lure me out of hiding, she thought furiously, for the time I have left with Lady Arevethmonion grows short, and Hamphuliadiel must be more subtle when I am in the sight of all.

As if her thoughts had the power to command reality, the Calwas knight she had marked turned his Penenjil mount from the field. The blood-maddened destrier reared and fought, desperate to rejoin the battle though it was bleeding from a dozen wounds. At last its rider prevailed, and the grey warhorse flung itself from the field.

Directly toward Vieliessar's hiding place.

She stood her ground. Half in disbelief, half with the desperate need to Heal at least one of the injured. The grey's rider had dropped his sword as he fought for control of his mount, and his armor was so slicked with blood that the bright metal looked as if it had been enameled.

Arevethmonion would be safety. Arevethmonion would hide him.

But when he was no more than a bowshot's distance from where she stood, she heard a sound like the crack of an ice-laden tree limb. The destrier went down as if it had struck a tripwire, crashing to the earth so hard that it lay stunned for a moment, and Vieliessar could see the ruin of its shattered foreleg. Once more the knight managed to jump clear as the animal floundered desperately, trying to rise. He staggered to his feet, hesitated, then turned back to the destrier. He flung himself upon its neck, pinning it to the earth as he slashed its windpipe, and the great beast at last lay still.

But that stroke of mercy seemed to have taken all the knight's strength. He tried to get to his feet, staggered, fell full-length against the frozen earth, and began to crawl.

Vieliessar was running toward him before she thought. "Down," she gasped, falling to her knees beside him. "Be still. I will Heal you and they will not see us." Concealment was a simple spell. She cast it without thought.

Every Healer in the Sanctuary knew how to remove the complex armor of the komen, for an injury could not be Healed if it was still transfixed by the metal that had caused it. Beneath the blood-sodden surcoat she could sense the spearhead that had slipped beneath the armored chestplate. Her hands slipped in blood as she worked the intricate fastenings to allow her to lift his helmet free.

His hair was shorn close to his head.

She knew him. Anginach. Anginach Lightbrother of Calwas had been a Candidate in her Service Year. He'd Called Fire one night in the Common Room-terrifying all of them, including himself. He'd become a Postulant, taken the Green Robe, and returned home years before.

How had he come to be here, in armor, bearing a sword?

"Vielle-Vieliessar. P-praise the Silver Hooves..." He reached toward her, wincing as fresh blood forced itself between the plates of his armor, but he was too weak to complete the gesture.

"Be still," she repeated. She could not take the time to feel her shock at seeing him in armor-she could already sense him dying.

"Healer ... too," he gasped. He coughed, spattering her with his blood. "Lost- The proof- Ah, Farcarinon, forgive- Forgive-"

"You have never harmed me," she said. "Please. You must try!" With all her skill, she willed her energy to him, willing Anginach the seconds she needed to save him. But the deeper she knew his body, the more she realized it was hopeless. She could not Heal him.

No one could.

He had poisoned himself.

His body told her a tale of days and nights of no food and little sleep, of riding madly across a frozen landscape to reach the Sanctuary of the Star. There were cordials one could take to force the flesh to burn its store of future years in a sennight or a moonturn, to give impossible strength and endurance. They were dangerous at one dose, fatal at two or more. All Lightborn knew the recipes. Anginach had used it.

"Lost," he repeated. He fought to say more, to tell her what urgency had sent him to the Sanctuary in disguise when he might have come openly in safety, what had caused Calwas and Penenjil to ally themselves ...

Why he had begged her forgiveness, for he had never stood her enemy.

It was too late. Anginach drew a deep breath. And did not draw another.

He called me Farcarinon. The words she had left unheard in her desperate fight against time sounded in her mind like the mortal beat of the war drum. Why? Why? Why? Her hands at last freed the catches of his armor. She pulled it from his body with reckless haste, throwing each piece as far as she could. Collet, besages, rerebrace, vambraces, breastplate, greaves, pollyns, cuisses ... I shall not let them see my Lightbrother in this falsehood! When he wore nothing more than chain shirt and aketon, he was light enough for her to move.

The battlefield was quiet. She dared to glance back at it. Haldil and Bethros had won, though they had paid a high price. Two knights in purple and blood-spattered gold stood over a kneeling Penenjil Silver Sword with drawn blades. The other two victors were searching among the dead.

The Silver Sword removed her helmet. The Haldil sword swept down. The blow did not sever her head from her neck, but it killed her.

Vieliessar dragged Anginach's body into the trees. Hide me, Lady Arevethmonion! she begged. Hide us!

The veils of misdirection and invisibility that had shielded her before-half of her making, half the will of Arevethmonion-held fast.

Would the knights mark the absence of one of their foes? Would they search the Flower Forest? What she had seen had been no proper war. Early spring was not War Season. And even if it were, Haldil and Bethros, like Penenjil and Calwas and Enerchelimier, were Houses of the Grand Windsward. Why travel so far from home to do battle?

She dragged Anginach through the forest until she was out of breath. She knew she was leaving a track behind her that a blind hikuliasa could follow, but she would not leave him in his shame.

There were no sounds of pursuit.

In a deep clearing beside another pool, she pulled chain and aketon from his body, drew the point of the broken spear from between his ribs. His flesh was inscribed with the tale of his desperate flight: raw flesh and open sores, bruising and broken bones, a gauntness clearly due to starvation. Beneath the aketon, a length of filthy, blood-sodden parchment was pressed to his chest. She carefully lifted the parchment free and set it aside, then used handfuls of water to wash his flesh clean. As she did, she realized that the knotted flaxen cord he should be wearing-that all the Lightborn wore beneath their robes-was missing.

I will not send you to Tildorangelor unknown.

It was the work of a moment to untie her own cord and knot it about his waist. But what now? Those who went to ride upon the night wind-princes, nobles, komen, and Lightborn-gave their bodies up to unchanging Fire. Only the Landbond and the cursed went into the earth. She would not summon Fire within Arevethmonion's sacred precincts, nor bury Anginach as if he were Landbond.

In the end, she left him in Arevethmonion's keeping and simply walked away. She did not look back. She never returned to the place where she had left him to his journey.

She took the parchment with her.

She stopped beside the stream near her sleeping place to wash the blood from her hands and clothing. The parchment she had taken from Anginach's body was a length such as might have been used for a scroll. It was torn at one end and glued closed with drying blood. Carefully, she immersed it in the stream, rinsing it clean, then unfolded it gently. The interior surface was covered in tiny, precise writing. Vieliessar's eyes widened. She recognized the hand.

Celelioniel of Enerchelimier.

Celelioniel Astromancer.

"I never meant to turn my hand to The Song of Amrethion. My interest was in Mosirinde's Covenant. Many have said that it was her enchantments which caused the Flower Forests to be. Today we draw upon them to work our Magery, as the Covenant commands us. But Mosirinde taught more of what we must not do than what we must: of the dangers of necromancy and blood magic, of taking so much energy from Life that we leave Death in our wake. How came she, I wondered, to know so intimately the perils that might befall us?"

As Vieliessar read, it was as if she heard Celelioniel's living voice. Not the ravings of the mad Astromancer whom all now mocked, but the careful researches of the scholar, for like so many of the Lightborn, Celelioniel was first a researcher and historian. Vieliessar decided that she held the preface Celelioniel had written for her annotated copy of The Song of Amrethion and assumed that the rest of the scroll was now the spoil of those who had harried Anginach and his escort to their deaths.

Celelioniel must have taken it away with her when she returned to Enerchelimier, Vieliessar realized. Did she realize Hamphuliadiel meant to betray her when it was too late for her to stop him? Or could she not bear to give it up?

There was no way to know.

Celelioniel's preface broke off in the middle of a sentence-Anginach must have torn it loose and hidden it when he'd realized they were pursued-but Vieliessar had enough to draw conclusions about the whole. Celelioniel had begun by attempting to fix one moment in time: the birth of the Flower Forests and the inception of the Covenant the Lightborn swore to husband the land. Celelioniel wanted to know how this knowledge had been gained, for no child fears the fire who hasn't been burned. And so she had learned of a Darkness-hungry, implacable, biding its time and gathering its armies until it rode forth from its obsidian halls to slake its unslakable hunger on all that was. An enemy as real and malign as any Beastling army-but an army whose first attack upon the Hundred Houses lay not in the primordial past, but in the future.

Vieliessar would never know what steps had led Celelioniel to The Song of Amrethion, and what hints gleaned from ancient histories had made her realize Amrethion's Curse was not gibberish. But by the time Celelioniel Astromancer traced the ancient history of the Darkness back to the beginning of Lightborn Magery, Serenthon's feet were already set upon the road of the High Kingship.

How came this to Anginach's hand? How came he to seek me?