The Hidden Stars Page 8

  “If we ask,” interrupted a richly dressed nobleman seated by the King, “the answer is not long in coming. It was meant as an example to the rest of us, a demonstration of her power. She means to dishearten the allies of Thäerie, to make them question their allegiance to our cause.”

  “I fear that some have already done so,” said Réodan, exchanging a glance with Elidûc across the room. “The Duke of Mere promised to send someone to take part in our council, but no one has come.”

  At this, Bael of Hythe—he that had arrived so late—sprang to his feet, a great hobbledehoy youth half a head taller than anyone else in the room, still growing by the evidence of clothing that did not quite fit him. “Mere has deserted us.” Then, remembering himself, he swept a bow to the King, to the other princes. “Let it be my turn to speak. I was delayed in coming because my cousin of Mere was to have sailed with me. I waited on the coast for three days. At last a messenger came. The Duke has withdrawn from the Alliance. He vows not to take up arms against any of his kinsmen, any of his former allies, but neither will he—in his own words—‘continue to conspire against the Empress Ouriána.’”

  “I think this is no new decision on his part,” muttered Llio. “This is why the promised supplies of beer and grain never came, why our women and children starved, why so much of the strength went out of our fighting men and our wizards. Not take up arms against us? He’s already betrayed us!”

  “If he were a traitor,” said Réodan, frowning thoughtfully, “I think he would be here listening to our plans, carrying everything we say directly to our enemy. Though whether he will be permitted to remain neutral is another matter. Pharaxion armies are massed on his borders. Will Ouriána and her Furiádhin accept this tepid attempt at conciliation and turn their attention elsewhere?”

  “She would be wise to pretend that she does accept it,” said Tuilach. The oldest of the Nine Masters, he had long white hair falling past his knees, and a thin, high voice. He looked bleached and frail, but his mind remained sharp, and Faolein and the other wizards had the habit of deferring to him. He had seen more than two hundred years, and his knowledge of the world was very great. “I think she will hold her hand, though Mere is within her reach, in the hope that she might encourage Weye and Hythe to follow his example.”

  “We will never do so!” cried Prince Gwynnek, surging to his feet to stand, sturdy and truculent, by his cousin of Hythe. “If she knows us at all, she knows we won’t turn coward as our kinsman has done.”

  “But, in fact, she doesn’t know much about either of you, Lord Prince,” returned Tuilach mildly. “You have both so recently come to rule. Your late fathers she did know—or at least, she knew what they might do in any given circumstance. But sons are not always like their fathers. She may hope to see you follow the example of your cousin the Duke.”

  “We will speak more of this later,” said Réodan, gesturing to the two young princes to return to their seats. They obeyed, but reluctantly, and sat glaring defiantly at the assembly, their faces flushed and their eyes very bright as if some doubt had been cast on their courage or their honor.

  “For now,” said the High King, “let us hear from Gearhan of Erios.”

  Gearhan was a small man, in armor of black leather stamped with the spiraling maelstrom badge of the island; he wore also a long, dark cloak, which swept the floor as he crossed the room and bowed low before the King. “What I have to say makes ill telling. Ouriána has reclaimed Erios. For ten years we managed to hold the island against her, despite many determined assaults, but in the end she conquered us by magic and trickery.

  “You mustn’t think that she found us careless or idling,” Gearhan went on. “The Isle of Erios is small but mountainous, and we had watchmen and seers in all the high places, gazing out to sea. We had boats patrolling the waters. My grief that we should be defeated by something so insubstantial as an illusion! One moment, our watchers were staring out to sea, where they saw nothing more dangerous than a flock of seagulls. The next, a great fleet of black ships with sails of crimson and purple came sailing into the harbor at Sgeirre, at the southern tip of the island. The very magic that created the illusion should have forewarned our seers, but the magic itself was somehow disguised. The enemy was upon us before we had time to board our own ships, before we could organize our forces on land.

  “We fought hard to defend our city. From street to street they harried us, then uphill, to the fortress of Dunsgeirre, where many of our people had gathered. I think we might have held the fortress, too, had we not been suddenly attacked from the east by wyvaerun. The smallest were as large and as fierce as eagles, and some were many times larger. They came at us without warning, and tore a dozen men to shreds with their beaks and claws before we had time to react.”

  There were gasps of surprise and dismay throughout the room. All knew of the wyvaerun: hybrid creatures, part bird, part serpent, originally bred for the Otöwan nobility, who had flown them like kestrels. After the world Changed the creatures reverted to the wild, until Ouriána somehow contrived to win their allegiance, employing the hybrids as spies and messengers, for their sight and hearing were very keen. She had also, apparently, been selectively breeding them larger and larger, but no one had imagined they could reach such an enormous size, or that the wyvaerun were dangerous.

  “So we’re now to be attacked from the air, as well as by land and sea,” growled Bael of Hythe.

  “We have archers,” answered Réodan. “And more of those, perhaps, than Ouriána has giant wyvaerun.”

  The late-afternoon sunshine poured into the great chamber through the high western windows; wherever it touched the mosaic floor the variegated blue tiles gleamed like water. Here and there, sunlight glanced off armor, off a crimson jewel set in the hilt of a sword, off silver-and-gold embroideries on lordly surcoats and banners. The Master Wizards sat silent and meditative in their twilight-purple robes. It was very still in that bright room: everyone felt weighted with knowledge, and the burden of the choices before them seemed almost too much to bear.

  Then Prince Bael left his seat again. His dark eyes swept the room, and his voice took on a challenging note. “Archers are all very well, but they are only men. What do the wizards of Leal have to say to us? For in all that has been said here today, we’ve heard much of our fighting men, but very little of our magicians.”

  “We will do what we have always done,” said Faolein quietly. “We will heal. We will advise. We will foresee—where we are able. We will counter Ouriána’s spells, as and when we may.”

  “And that is all you will do? In truth, you’ll not act at all—you will merely react, and that, as often as not, too late!”

  There was an angry stir among the Nine Masters, a low protest from the lesser wizards and from the students of the Scholia. In the sudden agitation that moved through their ranks, no one noticed a shabby figure, dressed for travel in high boots and weather-stained cloak, slip into the room and take a seat on the floor with the young wizards.

  “I take it,” said Curóide, crossing his arms across his broad chest, “that you would have us attack Ouriána directly, with all of the spells at our command—the wizards of Leal against Ouriána, her magicians, and her priests, in one great arcane battle?”

  “Why not?” said Prince Bael. “We have been at war more than forty years, but you might end it overnight.”

  Curóide’s light eyes narrowed, his square jaw set. Yet it was Tuilach who spoke, gently scolding, in his thin, high voice. “Lord Prince, no good thing could possibly come from such a battle. When the wizards of Alluinn fought the mages of Otöi, both sides lost. A thousand magicians died, all told, many thousands of others died, too, and the world was Changed. There was—”

  “There was a century of peace that followed after,” Bael interrupted him. “Evil was defeated, virtue triumphed, and men built a better world out of the ashes of two fallen civilizations.” Then remembering to whom he spoke—or perhaps ashamed of his own dis
courtesy—the Prince flushed painfully, and sat down in his chair, dropping his face into his hands.

  “I think we need not lesson Tuilach on an era he remembers very well,” said Faolein, with a slight, ironic smile. “Yes, there was a time of peace—between nations, because men were too much at war with their changed world to fight among themselves. New species arose—plants and animals, birds and fish—some of them dangerous. Runes that magicians had relied on for centuries lost their potency, and wizards labored for decades discovering new ones. And later, when we came to know our world and how to live in it, it did seem we had finally grown too wise ever again to yield to the temptations of the Dark. We did, then, believe that the world was perfected, but we were wrong. For evil was not defeated. It merely found a new vessel in Ouriána of Phaôrax.”

  Prince Bael lifted his face. “And you would not risk yourselves for the sake of another century of peace, perhaps even longer?”

  “Our fear,” said Curóide, “is that we might sacrifice everything—our own lives and the lives of countless innocents, too—and there would be no peace. Ouriána would not be defeated.”

  A brief, meaningful glance passed between the two princes, Hythe and Weye. Then Weye spoke, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. “She calls herself a goddess, but I, for one, have never believed her. Yet it seems that our Master Wizards do. Is she, then, truly invincible?”

  “No,” said Draithleann. Next in age and wisdom to Tuilach, she had long, braided hair the color of old ivory, and clear grey eyes brimming with light, which seemed to see everything and nothing—for Draithleann was a blind seer. “But we do believe in our own prophecy: that the Dark Lady of Phaôrax will not be defeated by the men of Thäerie, and not by the wizards of Leal. She will yield—if ever she does yield—only before the power of one of her own blood.”

  “But there is no magician, no wizard of the house of Phaôrax capable of challenging her,” Prince Bael protested. “Those who might have done so are dead. Years may pass, decades may pass, before another is born to take the place of the child who was lost. By then it may be too late.”

  The burning color came back into his face as he spoke, and his dark brows came together in a fierce scowl. “Will there be blood sacrifices on Leal, on the very steps of the Scholia? Slave ships in the harbor at Penthéirie? Will we see all the world in thrall to the overmastering pride of this one woman steeped in black magics?”

  At these words, many in the hall blessed themselves—some openly, some furtively, as though by doing so they betrayed some doubt or distrust of the King or the wizards.

  But then Tuilach rose, and he, too, signed a béanath against the ill omen, with a sweeping gesture that took in the whole room. “We will do all that we can to prevent it,” he answered quietly, “each according to the dictates of his own conscience. No man, and certainly no wizard, should ever do more.”

  “And so,” said Prince Gwynnek, with a bitter laugh, “the soldiers and sailors of Thäerie, the fighting men of Weye, Hythe, Rheithûn, Malindor, Erios, Gonlündor—they have all spilled out their blood for nothing, for a hope that may never materialize?”

  “We must not forget that Leal has also known losses,” the High King reminded him sternly.

  “More than a hundred wizards have died in this war,” said Níone, her cool grey eyes moving from one flushed and angry young face to the other. “That hundred may seem a trifle to you, but it was almost half our number. And those who live are not unscathed; our healers, most of all, have suffered greatly. The despair, the inner turmoil of those who have returned from the battlefield is like a cry of agony in our minds at all times. What then? Would you have us forget the lessons of the past, adopt a course so dangerous and so unthinkable that even Ouriána, in all her ruthless arrogance, would shrink from attempting it?”

  “Then what hope have any of us?” asked Bael, sliding down in his chair, giving the wizards a black look under his heavy eyebrows. “Our list of allies grows shorter and shorter. Our wizards are afraid to act. Should we sue for peace? The recent atrocities in Rheithûn should be warning enough—will our enemy be any more merciful to any of us, once she has us in her power?”

  “No,” answered Réodan, wearily. “We will not treat with her, and we won’t surrender. We continue to fight her as best we may—with hope or without it.”

  It was then that the traveler seated on the floor with the young wizards rose to his feet and threw back his hood, revealing a head of shaggy brown hair and a lean, scarred face. “Not entirely without hope,” he said in a clear voice. “For one that we all thought lost has been found, and the tide of battle may still turn our way.”

  In the sudden uproar that followed, the King barked out an uncharacteristic demand for silence. The noise died; all faces turned his way, startled to hear him speak so roughly. But he was intent now on the weather-beaten figure in the worn green cloak and high boots. “Who is this man? How did he come here?”

  “It is Aethon of Sibri,” answered Tuilach. “Once a student at the Scholia, a wanderer since. I can vouch for him myself. He was my own apprentice.”

  “Then,” said the King, “I will hear him speak. But what he has to say may not be a matter for open discussion. Master Wizards, Aethon, my kinsmen of Hythe and Weye, Elidûc; lords of my own household, you may all stay.” As he spoke, his glance passed over each one that he named.

  Then he made a broad gesture of dismissal. “All the rest have my leave to depart.”

  3

  There was silence in the room, a great silence made up of many little silences. Only those the King had invited to stay remained; the massive doors had been closed and locked, the wards reset. This done, no one spoke, no one moved, waiting for the King to speak. Sitting among the other wizards and struggling to maintain his outward composure, Faolein felt a little sickly thrill of expectation.

  “And now,” Réodan said to the wanderer, “I would have you explain yourself.” His words echoed through the vast chamber.

  “I have been to Skyrra,” replied Aethon. “Where I spent a fortnight at the court of King Ristil at Lückenbörg. While I was there, I saw a wonder: men brought back to life, who appeared to be dead, and Nimenoë’s ring on a lady’s hand.”

  There was an explosion of tiny sounds as wizards and noblemen shifted forward in their seats: a rustle of cloth, a hiss of indrawn breath, a scrape of spurs on the tile floor.

  “On whose hand?” asked Réodan. His tawny hazel eyes glittered with excitement, but his voice remained calm, measured.

  “On the hand of the youngest princess. But perhaps I should tell you my story from the very beginning.”

  The King nodded, and the wanderer began his tale:

  “For the benefit of those who know little of Skyrra, I will tell you that it’s an open country of grassy plains and rolling hills. Across the wide channel known as the Necke are the nations of Arkenfell and Mistlewald—friendly and kindred folk—to the east lies Eisenlonde. Ever since the Change, the men of the north have returned to an older way of life, abandoned their cities, turned their backs on book learning, wizardry, and the greater world, growing insular and clannish. But although they are unlettered, the men of Skyrra, Arkenfell, and Mistlewald are a brave and generous and honorable people. The Eisenlonders, on the other hand, are much as they always were: savage and cruel. They pledged their fealty to the Dark long ages ago, and there’s no reason to suppose that their allegiance has shifted.

  “For many years, a threat has been growing throughout the north. Skinchangers—werewolves and werebears—attack isolated villages in Arkenfell, Skyrra, and Mistlewald, and there have been occasional armed clashes between the men of Skyrra and the barbarians of Eisenlonde. Lesser evils, these skinchangers and berserker warriors may seem to us, who have been at war with Ouriána of Phaôrax for all these long years, but a village raided, a farmstead burned, a family killed and eaten—these are no small matters when they take place just over the next hill, or in the next vall
ey.

  “One day while I was at Lückenbörg, a host of King Ristil’s men rode in, wounded and bloody after a skirmish to the east. They had been victorious, but the battle was a very close thing, for all that their numbers were so much greater. The barbarians have apparently revived one of the ancient ice giants. An—”

  He was interrupted by a brief sensation following this news, a barrage of questions. Aethon waited patiently while their voices battered him, and answered not a word. Only when the noise died down did he continue:

  “An immense dark figure fights in their ranks, wielding a mighty war hammer scrolled with runes and strange devices. Where that dread weapon strikes, it crushes, but even those who feel the wind of its passing fall, and are rendered as cold and still as death. Several of the bodies were carried to Lückenbörg and laid at King Ristil’s feet. I saw them myself, touched them, and there was not a doubt in my mind: they were dead. Even the Skyrran healers thought they were dead. Yet almost a week had passed, and the bodies were still fresh.

  “Then Ristil sent for his niece, the Lady Winloki. The princess moved among the fallen, spoke words over them, and—it was a marvel!—the color came back into their faces, the air rushed into their lungs. All but one revived.” Aethon’s eyes glowed with the memory. “I was close enough while the lady was tending them to see the band that she wore on her hand, and to recognize it as Nimenoë’s runic ring. But after the men were healed, the lady apparently put the ring aside, as though she understood it was dangerous to be seen wearing it—for I never saw it again while I was there.”