Book One: Vonnis
Prologue
"In the light of the Divine Sun," said the high priest, "in the warming rays of the Sacred Day of Eternity, may the power
of the Holy Morning infuse us here in the twilit valley of our mortal life. May the endless glory of the Fire Everlasting
touch our darkened souls, the ever-changing Constant Beacon guide our feet as we walk in this shadow land, the
Immemorial Conflagration kindle our answering spirits, and the Lamp of the Ages light the lives of our children and
their children down through the long years after our embers have died.
"Second day, first regnal year of her Ladyship, Vivian, Countess of Clane and Lady Protectress of the Stronghold of Vonnis, Seventeenth of her line, daughter of our beloved Edmund, Sixteenth Count of Clane: her first council, this twelfth day of January, of the year of the Empire 768." The high priest removed his sun-bonnet and sat down.
"Ready, young Edgar?" asked Sir Rogier de Clatu, the minister of state.
" 'Ready, young Edgar?'," replied the scribe Edgar.
"Her ladyship being of age," said Sir Rogier de Clatu, "the Countess Vivian presides, let it be so recorded."
"It is so recorded," said the scribe.
"Well," said Sir Rogier, "as much of a shock as it was when Count Edmund died yesterday afternoon, the County must go on. Some of us were alive when his father Count Theodred died thirty-seven years ago, and some of us were already in the service of the County, but none of us was on the council the last time the Medallion was passed down. So I've looked in the books, and it is the tradition of Clane that on the first full day of a new Count, there should be a meeting of the Council at which all ministers report and all budgetary items are reviewed, for the benefit of the new ruler."
"May the Sun shine upon the Countess Vivian," the old men chorused. Sir Rogier de Clatu looked around at all of them--the lord consul, Sir Everard of Angren, the horse marshal, Lord Smeagle, the treasurer, Neil of Gorngold, second son of the Thane of Westdubbik, the interior minister Thane Burley of Skavin, the high priest Father Trofim and young scribe Edgar--and started in describing the goings-on among the states of the crumbling, Emperor-less Empire. Then the Interior Minister gave a brief and gruff assessment of the situation of the roads and walls and bridges of the County, and then the military geniuses, Sir Everard and Lord Smeagle, gave their report on Clane's security. They were not optimistic.
"To put it bluntly," said Sir Everard, after listing the dangers of invasion that threatened on all fronts, "we need more of everything. More men, more horses and several more forts."
"And better training and equipment for our horsemen," said Lord Smeagle. "We need more cataphracts. The old imperial cataphracts--armored horsebows with long swords--the Thane of Tarnver keeps a company or two outfitted, but we should have at least two thousand.""But the forts are most important," said Sir Everard. "We need at least one blocking each route of access that the nomads have scouted. The late Count Edmund, actually, told us to come up with a plan, and we were ready to bring this before his next council later this month. Now we have to proceed on our own."
"It's what he would have wanted," put in Lord Smeagle. "Sir Everard and I have made up a little map," Lord Smeagle offered, "showing where we could place a line of forts to hold the Rugians and Avars in check, and the bases of operations of several new companies of cataphracts."
"How thorough of you," said Neil of Gorngold, the fat treasurer.
"For instance, we have the fort at Simkin now; we would also fortify the village of Hildiwern. We would also renovate the hold of Tyef, in Skavin, and fortify Wervin. We would further reinforce the walls of Kazuhar, out in the borderlands of Bazir, and Acali in Selac, and build new castles at Grangeon, Midder and Lyroke. We also see smaller forts at strategic points such as Theogene, Sleyvell and Underperkneck."
"Quite an ambitious undertaking," commented Sir Rogier neutrally.
"Quite a preposterous one," said Neil of Gorngold, shifting his weight among his furs. "How much money do you want, all told, counting your regular budget?"
"We, ah, figured," said Sir Everard with a nervous smile, "ten or so."
"Ten? You're mad. That's more than half the budget. I'm sure it'd be very nice to wall in the entire county, but--"
"Excuse me," a high voice cut in from the end of the table. They all looked toward the chair so recently occupied by the strong-willed old warrior Count Edmund. His daughter, twenty-one-year-old Countess Vivian, had gotten up the courage to speak. "What does he mean, ten or so?"
"The defense budget," Neil drawled.
"Only ten florins?" The Countess was amazed.
The ministers did not think it polite to laugh. "No, no," Neil corrected her with exaggerated patience. "Ten thousandflorins."
A hot summer night: a night in History, 22 June 746. Count Edmund of Clane, already grey of temple, paced the stony hall. His every stitch was bathed in sweat. Several ministers stood about, trying to be available yet out of the way. A young scribe shadowed the Count: father of the young scribe Edgar, in fact.
A scream of pain from a woman in labor. First birth: a difficult one. At each gasp and moan, the Count grimaced or glared at the doorknob.
The ministers uttered silent prayers to the Sun for a male heir. The Count knew better. His sight had told him months ago that it would be a girl, and more, more than he would admit to himself--that this child would nearly kill her mother. Still he had some hope that the poor Lady Eleanor would be strong enough to give him another child. Perhaps his power in the other planes would be enough to pull her through another labor, enough to make that child a son. His own father had been lucky enough to have a son for his first and only child.
Another cry--then another--then a long wail joined by a second voice, thin, tiny, but free at last to suffer the world on its own.
The door flew open and a maid rushed out to shout, "It's a daughter, my lord, and so lovely a thing!"
The Count was just leaning against the hot wall, his eyes locked shut, his lips moving, but not in prayer. He saw
mountains, his mountains, with castles on them, and flags, strange flags in the valleys. He saw a great pale figure, a man
in gleaming white, his hands reaching to cover the land in pale shadow. Then he saw the face of a woman.
"Vivian," he said out loud.
"What did he say?" asked the maid.
"Damned if I know," said the wizened old minister of state.
"He said," explained the scribe, who felt that he had just caught the fringes of his master's vision, "name her Vivian."
A year later, the Lady Eleanor, wife to the Count, died in childbirth. Her son did not outlive her by so much as a day.
Vivian grew into full childhood all by herself in the tall corridors, the long meadows, the cobbled streets of Vonnis.
Her tutors came and went, one lasting only four days. They showed her stars and symbols and songs and formulae and
maps and arrows and many books. She was also taught about the needle and the lute: Count Edmund still hoped for a
male heir. And who could believe that this dirty little bundle of blue eyes and brown ponytails would ever be saluted as
the Countess of Clane?
Vivie soon developed an avid interest in traditional childish media such as pond water, road sand and rocks of all sizes,
as well as the aquatic invertebrates and amphibians. She spent a lot of her free time watching the men and older boys
playing rugby, or following the castle guards on their solemn rounds, or pursuing the maids from room to room in the
citadel. She had stories to tell anyone she could corner--especially the guards, who were supposed to remain silent when
on duty. She fancied she knew every secret way in Vonnis Citadel. She spent many winter days rambling about the
less-inhabited sections of the ancient structure: the old barracks, the back storehouses, a forgotten library. Every now
and then, however, an unprobed corner or an innocuous-looking curtain revealed a new door or passageway or a
narrow, sunless staircase under a layer of dust.
Vivian was, by position and by lack of siblings, cut off from having normal childhood friends. Other kids were afraid to
befriend her and afraid to tease her. Instead of human accomplices, then, she had cats to accompany her on her
ventures: especially nervous, compulsive, marmalade-pretty April and aging grey Pearl with her long silky hair, who
seemed almost about to talk. If she didn't, it was not for lack of example. Vivie could usually be heard two rooms away
keeping up a steady monologue. Whenever she stopped talking for a few seconds, April would halt in her tracks and
start crying until Vivie's soprano reassured her.
Meanwhile she went on trying to learn riding and writing, needlework and archery, poetry and history, the lute and the
abacus. Was she the heir, or wasn't she? No one, especially not her father, could have said for sure whether it was safer
teaching Vivian how to run the County of Clane or how to be a good consort to some prince. Count Edmund was
alternately fond, doting, permissive, and firm, particular, instructive, but for his part he never felt that he had enough
time for her. He wondered how she would do as Countess. He could not see how she would ever manage.
Attempting to settle the matter for good, he married again, this time to a busty aristocrat from Farlain named Lady
Anne of Wade. Unlike the fragile Eleanor, Lady Anne seemed capable of bearing buckets of babies, most of them sons.
But double misfortune struck: that very winter Lady Anne almost died of a fever which left her barren; and Count
Edmund, for once, lost control and fell hopelessly in love. Sir Adalbert, the minister of state, joked, in private and out
of the Count's hearing, that a divorce could perhaps still be arranged, but all the lords came to accept the Count's
devotion to her. At least she got on well with Vivie, who thought Lady Anne was the nicest person in the world.
Despite all this, despite the most obvious signs, only one or two of the County's major personalities readily accepted the
eventual ascension of Little Vivie to Countess. Certainly the Count did, and so, apparently, did the high priest Trofim,
who, after all, meditated for ten minutes four times a day by staring into the sun.
These two also took care of Vivian's secret education. She spent a couple of hours a week in the smallest room of the
Sun House, in dialogue with the High Priest, who taught her how contradictory a thing is knowledge. In twelve years he
never answered a question of hers, and with a look expressed deep concern whenever she failed to avoid answering his
questions. Meanwhile her father was teaching her the family's own secrets. He was a hero among his subjects, a dashing
and clever leader and the winner, before Vivian was born, of several major battles against steep odds, but with her he
always seemed rather at a loss for words. What was it he was trying to say--was he describing that indescribable place he
called the "other side", or explaining what she would have to do when she succeeded him, or just trying to tell her what
he thought of her? All his most important sentences seemed to break off midway through.
As they spent midnight after midnight walking the walls, or probing with candles the recesses of the cellars, or strolling
among the burial mounds, or wandering beneath the moonlit trees of winter, she did indeed come to know more and
more of things that most would never know to wonder about. She would wake up within a thought of dawn--to discover
that she knew which of the citadel guards had dozed off; to kindle the candle by her bed by staring at it; to put frogs
and mice in her chambermaid Jen's dreams. She was like a kitten learning about her claws. Of her arcane
peculiarities--one would hardly call them powers--she knew as little at age twelve as she did of the mysterious changes
occurring in hitherto ordinary parts of her body.
One night in May, when she would be thirteen in another month, she was put to bed early after being treated to a mug
of spiced wine. She awoke with the full moon beaming in straight lines from her south window. Her father's grey
moustache and watery eyes hovered in space above her.
She leapt up out of bed. "Here," he whispered, pushing a long robe into her hands. "Put this on and follow me. We
have business."
"Dad?"
"Ssh, no time to talk." He disappeared into the shadow of the door, opening it with a slight sound. She slipped after
him, half afraid that the Rugians were overrunning Vonnis, and half ready to play hide-and-seek in the cellars while he
tried to find words to tell her of the Plane of the Non-Manifest. With the robe and her slippers on, she followed close
behind him. He wore a dark cloak, which hid all but his face and hands, concealing even the medallion of the Count of
Clane on its heavy gold chain. His signet ring alone gleamed like a memory on his right hand. She found that he was
leading her to the thin tower that rose up from his chambers on the top floor of the keep. Up to this point in her life,
the worst transgression she could have conceived of committing would be to trespass here. Now he led her to the
narrow door and opened it. He took her hand and they ascended the tight spiral of stone steps together. In his other
hand he bore a torch he had taken from a bracket in the hall below. They came to the top of the steps and stopped in
the narrow landing before a door. He unlocked it quickly, setting the torch in a bracket at the top of the stairs, and
locked the door again behind them. He motioned for her to sit on the floor in the middle of the room, which was not
large and had windows on three walls. Her eyes adjusted: the only light in the room was what came from the torch
through the cracks around the door.
Opening a small drawer, he removed several objects: a decanter, a book, a cup, a vial, two squat candles and a deck of
large cards. He set these on the floor and sat down opposite her. His grey eyes brought one of the candles to flame with
a glance.
"Vivian," he said, "you are the only heir of our line. It's time you came into part of your inheritance."
"What's that?"
He placed the deck of cards in front of her. "It's not going to be easy... It wasn't easy for me, either, but there was still an
Emperor when my father died... And I wasn't a girl, either. Now--choose a card from the middle."
She did. The picture showed a woman, sitting, dressed in long grey-white robes, between two pillars, one black and one
white. There was an open book in her lap, and at her feet lay a crescent moon. A window behind her showed twilight
and two bright stars. Her hair was dark, her eyes grey. The Count was speaking in his distracted way.
"This will be your card," he said. "The Priestess." She examined it closely and would soon have lost herself in its minute
world. "There are--Vivian?" She looked up at him. "There are certain, uh, advantages, that our clan has enjoyed for as far
back as memory--as memory of memory reaches. The secret has been well kept--so well that I myself know little of their
extent, as they would be in the most powerful of our line." Her mind was wandering again. "Vivian, you are going to
have to keep the secret yourself."
"Yes, sir."
"Now some of us have these--things, well, more, uh, strongly than others. My father, the Count Theodred, was very
powerful, but very careful. He taught me as much as he could of the things he knew, but he could do many things, and
I haven't had as much luck. You, though, you show signs..." She smiled slightly, not catching his drift. "No one knows
about this but you and I--and we don't have any idea of the real limits. Really, I only know a few tricks. There must be
so many things that you will be able to do. More than I can, much more."
"Why?"
He looked away, a vague expression on his face. "Well, I--it's hard to explain. You'll understand someday. There are
already things that you can do. Do you not feel it when someone near you experiences great emotion?"
"Oh!" Now she had his drift. "Or when someone's about to sneeze?"
He smiled. "Well, that too." He opened the book. "But I'm going to have to initiate you into your power, and teach you
still more. I may have devoted a lot of time to teaching you, but that's just a foundation. Like all the time Arland spent
teaching you to write."
"How much more is there?"
"I don't know." He opened the decanter and poured a portion of dark wine into the silver cup. He poured out onto a
little plate a small pile of brown crystals from the vial, and began breaking the crystals into a powder. "Vivian," he said,
"could you put yourself into a trance?"
"A trance? Um, I guess so."
"I'll help you. Use the card." She took up again the picture of the priestess with the crescent moon at her feet, and stared
at it very intently. He reached out a hand and touched her on the forehead with two fingers and a thumb. Immediately
she felt the warm, familiar pressure of his mind at the door of hers, and she flung that door open. He was so deft, in
this channel--though he was halting and nervous in speech. She found herself alone with the priestess from the card, the
stars in the window, the open book. Presently she heard words, which she recognized on the page of the book in the
priestess's lap. They trailed on, an enormous sentence of ancient symbols. She understood none of them individually,
nor all of them in the usual sense of understanding.
Her father stood before her, infinitely old, the sole light in the dark room. His height and his shadow reached the
ceiling. With a long-fingered hand he scattered a pinch of powder into the cup, then another. He looked down into the
cup. She looked down into it, but its contents were opaque. He lifted the cup with two hands and held it out, and she
received it with two hands. Something more than wine. She looked up into his blue eyes, and he returned her gaze
somberly. She lifted the cup and drank, a little sip, but his mind's pressure raised her hands steadily and she drank the
dark liquid to the bottom. The silver of the cup gleamed back at her.
There were strange dreams, loose memories, unmoored details, some story she had read or some childhood nightmare.
A valley full of forest, forest climbing upward toward the heights, just after the sun set or just before it rose. Three
women riding across a meadow under mountains. That flying feeling of standing far above the world on a brilliant day.
Running in the twilight, panic in her wrists. Then, something nasty scratching at the door. A woman in a black dress. A
man robed in white. The fields brushed with white frost. A crescent moon in the sky, and two stars. A woman, sad,
young and beautiful, lying motionless in a bed, white as the sheets about her. And then many things more.
Vivian awoke in the high chamber, her father's eyes on her. She was sitting on the floor, her back to the door; he was
kneeling. She looked at him, then around. He raised an eyebrow. "I feel all right," she said.
"Good." He rose, and all his nervous habits came back to him. Outside the windows the sun flew in a blue sky. It was
five hours into a May morning. "What did you see, Vivian?"
"See?" She thought a moment. "I saw--my mother?"
"The Lady Eleanor. Yes, I suppose you did."
"And I saw--what did you mean by that?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Please, go on."
"I saw mountains, forests, rivers, bridges, more forests. Is there a place--is there a castle somewhere, by a little river, on a
height, with a high stone bridge?"
"I don't know, Vivian, is there?"
"It was in the mountains. It was a little place, but it had great high walls. And the only way in was this long high bridge
over the ravine, which ran right below the walls. There was a cliff up on one side, a cliff down on all the others. I saw it
in snow, then in autumn with the sun on it, then with the full moon, and I was walking on the walls, and it was cold
because I could see my breath in the moonlight. And then I saw a garden, it was spring and it was twilight, and there
were hedges and a fountain. That was a different place."
"A garden," he repeated. "Yes. Yes, the garden. But did you see Vonnis, or the plains?"
"No, I don't think so." She thought again. She had seen none of the familiar sights of the city where she had spent her
entire life. Then she grabbed his hand that was hanging near her head, and looked straight into the wells of his eyes. "Dad."
"What?"
"I did see this city. From the mountaintop, in the evening. It was burning."
She was not quite thirteen then; she was going on twenty-two now, and Vonnis had not burned. In November of 767,
Lady Anne died of another fever, and then on the eleventh day of the new year, Count Edmund, son of Theodred,
Sixteenth Count of Clane, coming in from the stable, sat down on a bench and fell asleep--dead of a stroke. Now
Vivian wore the heavy gold chain and medallion of the Counts of Clane, as her notoriously intimidating ancestor
Countess Tereza gazed down on her and the council clamored about her.
"We simply cannot afford to blow ten thousand florins on one ministry," expostulated Neil of Gorngold. "We can
barely afford five. What about the dole? What about the roads? The buildings we've already built, and must keep up?
The relief for the farmers in the Rocky Valley?"
"Neil," said Sir Everard of Angren, "if we don't put forts up to block the Rugian invaders, those farmers will be refugees."
"He's right," said Lord Smeagle. "You'll know who to blame when Vonnis is cut off. I'm sure we could raise plenty of
crops in the mushroom cellars."
"We can certainly raise a lot of mushrooms," said Neil, "on the stuff your budgetary plans are made of. If we spend this
much on castles, we'll all be eating potatoes all winter. You military types need to remember that you're not the only
needy charity around. Five thousand, take it or leave it."
"We must have ten!" cried Lord Smeagle.
"Or our babies will be feeding the Avars," said Sir Everard.
"You can only have five. It's no use arguing. There ain't no more."
"Look, Neil," said Lord Smeagle, trying to reason with the treasurer and using his wheedlingest voice. "We've put off
spending on this for years. We finally have to have it."
"You're crazy," shouted Neil, waving his arms. "Five, and that's it!"
The three of them stood shouting at one another, all at once like a bad chorus. Thane Burley of Skavin joined in on
Neil's side, just to make things even. Sir Rogier sat down disconsolate, while Scribe Edgar gave up taking notes, and the
high priest got up, went over to the window and stood there in the sunlight.
"Hey!" came the high voice from the far end of the table. Everyone shut up, just out of surprise. "Children, honestly,"
Vivian went on in her high strong voice. The combatants turned their eyes on her, ready to join forces and attack. But
little Countess Vivian, the interloper in the Chair of the Count, sized them up in a moment. "Did you behave this way
for my father?" she asked. They took a breath, muttered sheepishly. She looked at Neil. "My lord Treasurer, you will find
eight thousand florins for these projects somewhere." He rolled his eyes, but they accidentally in their orbit came in
contact with hers and were held. "Sir Everard, Lord Smeagle," she said, "you'll have to make due with that."
"But my lady, you don't--"
"Yes I do," she cut in. "As much as I plan to. That's it, no more will be said on it. Scribe Edgar, let it be written as I have said."
"Her ladyship has indeed spoken," said Sir Rogier, regaining his smile. "Next business?"