Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER EIGHT

BATTLE CITY

For twice upon five hundred lives, the Throne of Shame shall sleep

And Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor a haunt of shadows lie

The Happy Lands shall ring to blood and battle through the years

While all who husband hidden secrets die.

Though many seek to gain the crown, no hand shall gain its light

And brother vie with brother for a prize no House can claim

While Darkness breeds in lands unknown, its armies bought with blood

Against the day false promise is made true.

—The Song of Amrethion Aradruiniel

The remains of the Free Companies ravaged the countryside as bandits. As she had vowed, Vieliessar hunted them relentlessly. As she had also vowed, she gave each of her prisoners a choice: pledge fealty to her or die in battle.

“I wish to offer you and your people a full pardon.”

There was a long moment of disbelieving silence.

“Why?” Nadalforo asked suspiciously.

“So you will swear fealty to me and fight for me,” Vieliessar said patiently. “It is better to be my vassal than my enemy. If you or any of your followers have committed offenses in another domain, I do not care. If any offense was committed in mine, I will pardon it. But you must swear to me.” She meant to become High King over a realm that held neither High House nor Low, and that was not a thing she could plan to do later, for she did not know how much of “later” there might be. It was a harder path, but she would begin her destruction of the Hundred Houses with the army that would fight to make her High King.

“But I—I ran off a steading. And Belgund—he broke parole when his lord wouldn’t ransom him. And Findron—”

“I don’t care,” Vieliessar said. “Keep my law. Keep my peace. Fight for me. You’ll be fed, clothed, and housed as well as any in my army and treated no differently than any other of my people.”

Nadalforo blinked several times, trying to make sense of what obviously sounded to her like madness. “We’re mercenaries—or we were. You could—”

“No,” Vieliessar said quickly. “I hire no mercenaries. Swear to me. Or leave my lands—and know that the next time we meet I will kill you all.”

“But … how do you know you can trust me—or any of us?” Nadalforo asked desperately.

“Break your oath to me and see,” Vieliessar said. “I do not think you will. Shall we see?”

“I—I—I guess we will,” Nadalforo answered.

Nadalforo—once First Sword of Stonehorse Free Company—was neither the first nor the last to pledge to Vieliessar. Taille by taille, Vieliessar built her army through the sennights of winter. Snow Moon became Cold Moon, Ice Moon, Storm Moon. By Storm, nine moonturns had passed since she had claimed Oronviel and the other War Princes had done little to indicate they feared her. Now the Ninety-and-Nine were preparing for War Season once more—and not with Oronviel. They would discuss her plans with one another beneath truce-flags all summer, and then plot at Midwinter Court to perhaps attack her the following year.

“You’ve told every prince in the land you mean to take the Unicorn Throne. Do you think Caerthalien will hear and do nothing?” Rithdeliel’s voice in her memory, crackling with frustration.

Yes, she answered mentally. I think they will delay and delay until it is too late.

In another wheel of the seasons, she would be High King, or she would be dead.

The scent of fresh-cut timber filled her nostrils as Vieliessar rode along the road which led to the keep. The village she had designed to hold—and train—her patchwork army was rising as quickly as grain stalks in summer. The village now occupied both sides of the road—vulnerable and indefensible if an enemy army or even raiders came; a liability in the defense of the keep itself, for it sprawled across the open land that had once surrounded Oronviel Keep, providing concealment for enemies and a hazard to defenders. But if the winter moonturns had brought a trickle of exiles flocking to Oronviel’s standard, then Storm brought a flood. Not merely outlaws and Landbonds, now, but craftworkers and Farmholders and Lightborn. Even lesser knights, coming with wives, husbands, children, and all they could bring away from their own domains. They came—every one of them—to fight not for Oronviel, but for Vieliessar.

Vieliessar High King, who promised them justice and an end to war.

She had spent the morning riding the bounds of the Battle City. The whole of it extended through the manor houses and farmsteads nearest the keep; a large area, and one where it was important that she show herself frequently. Those who occupied the city—former mercenaries, former outlaws, the children of Farmholders—would not approach her stewards or komen with their grievances, but would bring them straight to her.

The weight of their trust was sometimes the most oppressive thing of all. She longed for a day or two of quiet that she knew she would not get. Her court understood the business of treaties and alliances and pacts, but Serenthon had never asked Farcarinon to host the armies of his allies as if they were his own, nor sent his own knights to serve at the courts of his sometime-enemies. If that had been all she asked of them, it would have been difficult enough—but she also wished them to welcome, and even fight beside, those whom they would have gladly whipped from their halls for the presumption of speaking. As a child and even as a Green Robe, she had thought the War Princes lived lives of leisure and freedom. Now she knew that was only an illusion, a shadow cast by the power each domain lord held in his or her hands. Power could gain one a great many things, but it must be carefully and consciously nurtured.

It is a sharp sword and a heavy fetter, and I have taken up the blade and set the shackles on my own wrists.

She swung down from Sorodiarn’s back in the castel stables, fleetingly grateful for the privilege of rank that permitted her to keep her horses close to hand. There was little room within a Great Keep’s walls for beasts. Leaving the destrier in the hands of Fierdind Horsemaster, she proceeded to her rooms, cloaking herself in Shadow as she strode from the stable. It was a dangerous indulgence, but she had no desire to be stopped to answer a hundred questions today. She reached her rooms—there were no Guardsmen at her door when she was believed to be elsewhere—and stepped inside.

As the door closed behind her, she felt a sudden surge of the Light. She dropped her hand to her swordhilt, preparing every defense she could. She still dared do nothing that would mark her as Lightborn, even if it meant injury or worse. But the figure who appeared as the Cloakspell vanished was …

“Thurion!” she exclaimed.

He was muddy and bedraggled, and—more alarming than that—dressed not in the Green Robes of Magery, but clothes such as any upper servant might wear.

“I cry Sanctuary of Oronviel,” he said, in a voice that shook with exhaustion. “Will Prince Vieliessar grant this boon?”

“Of course,” she said instantly. “But— What is it? What has happened?”

“Hamphuliadiel…” Thurion said. He fell gracelessly into the nearest chair.

“What has Hamphuliadiel done?” she demanded.

“He has said he will not step aside as Astromancer,” Thurion said numbly. “He says he will surrender his place only when the Vilya in the Sanctuary’s own garden bears fruit—and he would not even have said so much so soon if Ivrulion Light-Prince had not been there to compel him! He swears this is no new ruling, but a return to the earliest practice by which the reigns of the Astromancers were calculated.”

“Mosirinde Peacemaker would be surprised to hear it,” Vieliessar answered dryly.

She sent for food, made tea, and learned the whole of what Thurion had to tell. Forester Lonthorn was not the only one in the Fortunate Lands who could predict the fruiting of the Vilya. Caerthalien, seeing a new Astromancer was imminent, had sent Ivrulion Light-Prince to the Sanctuary as soon as the roads could be traveled. He had obtained Hamphuliadiel’s answer in secret, but he’d Farspoken it to Carangil Lightbrother, and the news had spread from there to most of the castel Lightborn.

And Thurion had risked everything to bring it to her.

“He’s lying! There was never such a practice! And I don’t think the Vilya in the Sanctuary garden will ever fruit!” Thurion announced, pacing in agitation.

“I’d be very surprised if it did,” Vieliessar replied, raising her eyebrows. “What I wonder is why he wants to remain Astromancer. It isn’t a position that holds a great deal of power, and if he wants riches and luxury, he can get that at any court.”

“No,” Thurion said, his voice troubled. “You’re wrong, Vielle. There is power in the office of Astromancer—if the one who holds it is dishonorable enough to grasp it. You have seen it yourself.” He paused expectantly.

“When he charged the Lightborn of all the land to deliver me to his hand?” she asked, for that was what was foremost in Thurion’s thoughts. “What I have seen is Hamphuliadiel showing himself a fool.”

“No,” Thurion said patiently. “It did not work, that is true, for we swear fealty to our lords, not to the Astromancer. But if Hamphuliadiel has century after century to convince all who are trained at the Sanctuary that their first loyalty must be to the Light Itself, and that he knows better than they how they may best serve it—”

Then the Sanctuary of the Star will become the new Hundredth House.…

“I would be more troubled by Hamphuliadiel of Haldil’s ambitions if I thought he had a chance of achieving them,” Vieliessar answered bluntly. “Thurion,” she said gently, “if I am High King, I will deal with Hamphuliadiel. If I am not, the Darkness surely will. His ambitions do not matter, save in how we can make use of them.”

“And if he moves more quickly than you think?” Thurion demanded. “It is true that those who are sent to the Sanctuary each spring are unimportant in the eyes of the War Princes—save for whom we might become if the Light favors us—but if Hamphuliadiel holds the Candidates hostage, the War Princes must attack or they will seem timid and weak. They cannot attack the Sanctuary, so they will seek another target against which to display their power. And if refusing to give up the Candidates is not enough, Hamphuliadiel can deny access to the Shrine of the Star.”

“Arevethmonion is not the only Shrine,” Vieliessar said.

“I suppose you think the Hundred Houses will go to Tilinaparanwira the Lost to make their offerings?” Thurion said in exasperation. “Most of them don’t even know there are Nine Shrines—and don’t imagine their Lightborn know any more! Delfierarathadan is too dangerous to seek; Tilinaparanwira is lost; Oiolairwe, Teriqualanweore, and Mirinandwe are beyond the Feinolons—”

“Nomiatemil is in the Mystrals, and I suppose you will go on to say that because there is no guesthouse at Manostar nor pleasant gardens at Earime’kalareinya they will not do either?”

Thurion flung himself into a chair and regarded her with irritation. “I say that since the time of Mosirinde Peacemaker, the sacrifices have been offered at Arevethmonion and the Lightborn have gone there to be trained. If Hamphuliadiel denies access to the Shrine of the Star, the princes will not think that there are seven other places they can go. They will think Hamphuliadiel plots to punish them for not delivering you back into his hands.”

“Doesn’t he?” Vieliessar said. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to think. In the Sanctuary’s library she’d studied war, and in all the centuries the Hundred Houses had fought, Magery had never been a consideration in their plotting. But Thurion was right. Hamphuliadiel had taken the first step toward becoming a prince of the land in his own right. She must assume he would take the next, and the next. And the moment he did, the War Princes would panic.

And she would be their target.

“If I can make it seem that Hamphuliadiel’s actions—whatever they are—are taken in secret alliance with Oronviel, the War Princes should delay any attack they contemplate,” she said slowly. “I know Hamphuliadiel. Even if he means to hold hostages, he cannot let that be known until the last caravan has brought its Candidates and departed. By then, this season’s new Lightborn will have left as well. Then he may do as he wishes, and it will be a moonturn or two before anyone notices.”

“Yes,” Thurion said, nodding. “The War Princes send to make the victory sacrifices when they send the Candidates, and then they go to war. It will not be until Fire or Harvest that they will wish access to the Shrine of the Star again. Now: how will you convince the other Houses that Hamphuliadiel plots with Oronviel?”

“Simple enough,” Vieliessar answered. “I shall send Thoromarth immediately to bring away everyone from Oronviel—it will not seem impossible to Hamphuliadiel that I am so unused to ruling that I cannot gather Oronviel’s Candidates in a timely fashion. I shall send Ambrant Lightbrother with him to take my word to those of Oronviel who are already in training. The Postulants know a thousand ways to sneak out of the Sanctuary when they are supposed to be in their beds—as you well know—and Hamphuliadiel has no precedent for holding them against their will. Ambrant’s Keystone Gift is True Speech; his shields will defeat Hamphuliadiel’s attempts to hear his mind, and Thoromarth will swear to any who ask that the Oronviel Candidates come soon, for that is what I will tell him, and beg his pardon for the lie when he returns. And so it will be seen that this year, two Houses of all the Ninety-and-Nine have not sent their Candidates to the Sanctuary: Oronviel and Ivrithir.”

“But how will you— Ivrithir?” Thurion said, startled.

“War Prince Atholfol has pledged himself to support Farcarinon’s claim to the High Kingship,” Vieliessar answered. “On my word, he will withhold this year’s Candidates. I must see which of his Lightborn I may send to the Sanctuary with Ambrant, for the Ivrithir Candidates will not come away at Oronviel’s word.”

Thurion sat brooding over her words for a long stretch of silence. “If you do this, it will seem that—whatever Hamphuliadiel does—you knew of it beforehand,” he said at last. “But you will lose what new Lightborn you might have gained—” He gestured helplessly. “If the Postulants must come away without daring the Shrine—”

“There are other Shrines,” Vieliessar said once again. “For the rest, we shall simply return to the actual earliest practices of the Lightborn, when there was no Sanctuary and no single place of learning. Until there is a new Astromancer, Oronviel’s Lightborn will train her Lightborn-to-be.”

The High King’s Lightborn will train her Lightborn-to-be.

It took her most of a day to persuade Ambrant Lightbrother not merely to do what she wished him to, but to do it with utmost guile. If Thurion had not been there to swear that Hamphuliadiel would refuse to step down as Astromancer, she would undoubtedly still be arguing with him. She wished she could send Aradreleg Lightsister or Peryn Lightsister, or most of all, Harwing Lightbrother, who had found a joyous heart-twin in Gunedwaen, and now served as one of the Swordmaster’s most effective spies. But none of them had True Speech as their Keystone Gift: any shields they set about their minds and thoughts, Hamphuliadiel would be able to force.

She spoke with Atholfol in cautious elliptical messages sent by spellbird. Both Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen believed Farcarinon’s old war codes unbroken, and Serenthon had used a different cipher for each of his allies. Atholfol had agreed to withhold this year’s Candidates if Oronviel would swear to undertake their training—and to send his sealed writ by messenger to Thoromarth so those of Ivrithir who were to leave the Sanctuary this season would know it was safe to journey with Oronviel’s party.

But he would not give her an Ivrithir Lightborn to call his Postulants away.

And perhaps I, too, would be skeptical, had I not such long and intimate knowledge of Hamphuliadiel’s mind. Very well. I have warned him, at least.

She had known since before she left the Sanctuary of the Star that the time she would have to work in would be short, for she had squandered too many precious years seeking to avoid her destiny. Once Thurion fled Caerthalien, she knew she would have to work more quickly still, for the moment his presence in Oronviel was known, Caerthalien had the pretext it needed to attack her out of season. Very soon—in a moonturn, perhaps two—her war would begin, and she would not ride into such a desperately important battle without making a sacrifice to the Starry Hunt and petitioning Them for victory.

She could not go to the Sanctuary of the Star.

But as she had told Thurion, the Sanctuary did not hold the only Shrine.

In the candlemark before dawn, Vieliessar walked from the keep and down the path which led to the oldest part of the craftworkers’ village. No dog barked to warn of her passage, no goose bugled a warning. She had a long way to go before the sun rose and she would not take Sorodiarn to this appointment. Her destination was the paddocks beyond the stables. Spring was the season to begin a young horse’s training, so it could be exposed to the sounds and smells of battle long before it must stand steady before them. From among the drowsing animals she selected two: a young bay mare, already under saddle, and a pure white colt. She knew Fierdind Horsemaster meant to train Phadullu for her use in case Sorodiarn was killed, but she needed him now. She mounted the mare bareback and rode away in the darkness; the colt followed tamely.

Mornenamei was the nearest Flower Forest to the castel, and she would need Lord Mornenamei’s aid for the morning’s work. She reached Mornenamei and vaulted down from the mare’s back. The mare could be left here to graze: she would not go far, and if anyone happened upon her, the silver token braided into her mane would mark her as belonging to the castel stables. Vieliessar patted Phadullu on the shoulder and he followed her docilely as she walked into Mornenamei.

A combination of homesickness and longing assaulted her as she felt the Flower Forest’s magic enfold her. Her happiness at the Sanctuary of the Star had been dearly bought, but it had been real. She could not imagine there would ever be such happiness for her again.

Ruthlessly she banished those thoughts from her mind. Time enough to mourn her life when she had fulfilled the role Amrethion High King had set forth for her to play. Ten steps, then twenty, then twenty more, then she swung herself up onto Phadullu’s back. She nudged him forward at a gentle walk, and before he had gone a dozen paces, the Flower Forest through which he walked was far away from Oronviel.

She could Sense the Shrine the moment she filled her lungs with the air of Earime’kalareinya. She’d chosen it because Manostar was merely a notation in the histories, its location given as “somewhere in Tunimbronor.” There were accounts of visits to Earime’kalareinya, for many of the Land-Shrines had continued to receive visitors for some centuries after Mosirinde Peacemaker established the Sanctuary of the Star.

She dismounted again and walked onward. The day was brighter here than in Mornenamei, for she had gone toward the sun. She followed the currents of power until she reached the heart of Earime’kalareinya.

The three stones that marked the Place of Power looked somehow more stark and wild surrounded by the lushness of the Flower Forest than they did in the careful concealment of the Shrine of the Star. The stones are as weathered as if they stand upon a desolate plain, she realized a moment later, though this deep within Earime’kalareinya, wind and rain could barely reach them. A flat stone lay on the ground between them, and someone was still making offerings here, for the stone was smeared with blood that rain and time had not yet erased.

She stroked Phadullu’s silken neck, willing herself to feel the calm and serenity she had learned to summon before setting a great work of Magery, but could not manage it. Her fingers touched the knife on her belt and she hesitated. This was not the simple vigil with which every Lightborn ended training. To call upon Them was to Summon Them—and they might take the summoner as the victory-sacrifice. It was a fearful thing to make petition for victory and risk being taken to ride the star-roads forever.

You made up your mind to do this before you came! she told herself fiercely. She patted Phadullu on the shoulder once more. Obedient to her Magery, the young stallion knelt and she drew her knife.

“Heed me, You Who ride the night winds, who grant triumph in battle and victory in war. I, Vieliessar Farcarinon, Knight and Mage, daughter of Serenthon War Prince and Nataranweiya Ladyholder, come before You here, where the breath of first creation still warms my skin, where You must hear and heed when I call. Take my gift, and give me victory!”

She drew her blade across Phadullu’s throat. Hot blood spattered the standing stones, pooled on the rock between them, and soaked into the earth beyond, but the bespelled animal did not move until his body went lax with death. All around her, Vieliessar could Sense the roar of power roused, assaulting her senses as savagely as an autumn storm might batter her body. It seemed to her she must slit her eyes tightly against a raging wind, but she forced them to open and focus. She felt someone watching her. For one terrible moment she thought the Hunt Lord had come after all, and all her sacrifices had been for nothing.

But it was not He.

At the far edge of the clearing, a little way inside the trees, stood a pale shape that seemed to glow with its own inward radiance. Sending, she thought first, then, deer, since the shape was too small to be a horse and it was undeniably alive.

Then it took a slow step forward and a ray of morning light fell directly on its horn.

A single, sword-straight spike jutting from the center of its forehead, it shone as brightly as if some Lightborn had cast Silverlight upon it—if Silverlight could be whitely radiant and iridescent as a dove’s throat at the same time. It was neither horse nor deer. It had a long, slender neck like a deer’s, but also a mane—not long and flowing like a destrier’s, but roached and bristling like a plowhorse’s. Its white coat did not gleam with the glossy slickness of horse or hound, but seemed as if it must be as thick and soft as a cat’s.

Komen blazoned their shields with them, noble ladies wove tapestries depicting them, craftworkers adorned a thousand different objects with them, from infants’ cradles to shin’zuruf cups to the luck-charms braided into the manes of destriers. The luck-token baked into Midwinter cakes held their image—she had won five of them at the Sanctuary before she had realized it would always come to her and refused to participate any longer. She had sworn to reclaim the throne Amrethion had named for them.

But they are only a legend … Vieliessar thought, stunned.

The Unicorn was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She did not know how long she stood motionless, held in place by no spell other than the creature’s beauty, but suddenly the Unicorn turned its head, wheeled, and sprang back into the forest.

“No!” Vieliessar shouted. “Wait!”

She did not know why she called out as if it would come to her summons. She only knew she could not bear to lose sight of it. And so she ran. As she entered the trees, she saw it vanish in the distance. She ran faster, dodging recklessly between tree trunks, no thought in her mind but to draw near to that shining shape, to reach it, to touch it …

Even when she could no longer see it among the trees, she ran on in the direction it had fled. When she knew it had gone beyond her reach, she sent out a spell of Summoning—to no avail. It was nearly a candlemark before she could bear to give up the hunt. The thought she had seen it and would never see it again made her want to weep.

It was real, she insisted to herself. I saw the sunlight on its horn, its coat—I heard it crash through the brush as it fled. It was a thing alive, and no Seeming sent by the powers nor an evil illusion of Beastling shamans.

But no matter how hard she tried, she could not fit the sight of it into the world she lived in, the world whose rules she thought she knew.

“The Unicorn is the symbol of the High Kingship.”

This was no lesson from her days at the Sanctuary. Scrolls that spoke of the High Kingship had probably been destroyed, since none of the contenders for the throne would wish to provide arguments their enemies could use to disparage a rival claim and elevate their own.

No, this was a memory of a time so ancient Vieliessar did not know how to number the years.

Lady Indinathiel gazed out the window at the forests of Tildorangelor, beyond the walls of the city that bore both its own name and that of the forest: Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor. “We take the Unicorn as the symbol of the High Kingship,” she said idly, “for the single horn upon its brow symbolizes the High King. There are hundreds of great lords and thousands of knights, but only one to rule over them all. As the horn of the Unicorn is its greatest ornament, so the High King is the greatest jewel of the land.…”

The memory-of-a-dream faded. Lady Indinathiel had spoken of the Unicorn as if she were familiar with it as more than a symbol.…

I don’t understand. Surely the storysingers would have handed down the truth, just as they teach us about all the kinds of Beastling there are in the world, even though—if we are lucky—we will not see most of them.

It was the sort of puzzle she would once have delighted in, following its twists and turns through half-sentences scattered across a thousand different scrolls, questioning other scholars, other students, other lovers of history and truth and knowledge. Now—heartsore at the loss of the beauty she had glimpsed so briefly—Vieliessar told herself it did not matter. The creature was not a danger, nor could a beast of the forest be either enemy or ally. She would take its appearance as an omen from the Silver Hooves that her petition had been heard.

Victory for her cause. Survival for her people.

“Lord Thoromarth’s anger was great,” Ambrant murmured, his gaze fixed upon the carpet. “He swore you were a most treacherous prince, and that he would cause you to feel the shame you ought to feel for using him in such a deceitful way.”

It was Rain Moon before the party Vieliessar had sent to the Sanctuary returned, and within the candlemark of its arrival, Ambrant Lightbrother had come to give her his report. They’d returned six days earlier than expected—unencumbered by Candidates on the outward journey, Thoromarth had simply pushed his company of knights as hard as if they were riding to war. Since the baggage carts that accompanied them were drawn by sturdy draft horses, not the slower and more massive oxen, the entire group had moved at a breakneck speed.

“Indeed?” Vieliessar answered meaninglessly. While she was certain Thoromarth had been furious, he was … considerably more direct in his speech than this.

“But Thoromarth of Oronviel is your loyal servant, Lord Vieliessar,” Ambrant said grudgingly. “Even before his temper had run its course, he made provision for those whom I placed in his care, and we hastened to return here.”

Thoromarth had left the Sanctuary with eighteen from Ivrithir and Oronviel who had finished their Service Year without being Called to the Light, and twelve more who had just taken the Green Robe. When Ambrant rejoined him, he brought forty-three who belonged to Oronviel, from children who had just completed their first year as Postulants to those who were nearly ready to dare the Shrine.

If the company had not been almost entirely Lightborn, the journey would have been far harsher than it was, for Thoromarth had brought provisions for the thirty returning Candidates and new Lightborn he had expected. Instead, he found he must make provision for seventy-three, many of them children. But even the newest Green Robe could Call game to the slaughter, and most had some facility with spells of misdirection and concealment.

“I thank you for your care of your brethren and the care you have taken to discharge my commands,” Vieliessar said, indicating the interview was at an end.

But: “My lord?” Ambrant said, and now he seemed—for the first time—troubled and uncertain. She waited politely.

“The Astromancer swears that since the days of Mosirinde Peacemaker it has only been the Vilya in the Sanctuary gardens whose fruiting must be taken into account to calculate a reign. And it may be that the Vilya there is of such great age that it fruited in those ancient days, for we speak of them as “ever-living” for good reason. But as I waited to discharge my duty to you, I chanced to walk in the gardens, for I was curious to understand why this tree, of all the Vilya in the Fortunate Lands, should be barren of fruit.” Ambrant looked away, gazing out the window of Vieliessar’s chamber, looking as though he wished he’d never said anything. “It was bespelled,” he blurted out at last, turning back to gaze at her. “I think. I don’t— A subtle spell, my lord—had it been a spell of preservation it would have been easily noted. I did not mean to speak of it, for I know that you and the Astromancer are enemies. But I am troubled.”

“Ambrant,” Vieliessar said, oddly moved by his stammering confession, “I believe you have sensed what is indeed there. I shall tell you why I believe it to be so, and it is a thing I have told few of my people. Yet you have earned my trust.”

“I hope I shall always deserve it, Lord Vieliessar,” Ambrant said, and what might have been pomposity on any other day came out raw and honest.

“You were at the Sanctuary under Celelioniel Astromancer, were you not?” she asked, and when he nodded, she continued. “Celelioniel left her great work unfinished when the Vilya called her home. She entrusted its completion to Hamphuliadiel, who had been her student for many years. But Hamphuliadiel told Celelioniel what she wished to hear, not what he meant to do. He broke every vow he made to her once he had what he desired.”

What she had said was truth, but she would not tell Ambrant the whole. Not yet. It was a heavy weight, and she would place it upon as few as she could. Hamphuliadiel believes in the Prophecy and for that reason he acts out of fear and arrogance.

“That— It is an ill thing to hear of the Guardian of the Shrine, but it comforts me,” Ambrant answered. “Only let his madness be overthrown.”

“It will be,” Vieliessar said with grim honesty.

The road to peace would be long and edged with swords, and led as readily to death and failure as it did to the glorious end Oronviel’s new War Prince dreamed of. Half her plans were utter madness; the other half, so cunning they chilled the marrow. Thoromarth had known since the day she spared his life that the game she played was deep and secret. He had not known how deep until he rode to the Sanctuary of the Star.

But once he was alone in his own rooms in Oronviel Keep, fed and bathed and wrapped in a chamber robe, his armor taken away to be cleaned, Thoromarth was too restless to sleep. He summoned a servant to bear away the debris of the meal and bring wine, and sat, cup in hand, gazing into the flames dancing upon the coals of the stove.

What did he want? Not now, nor even a moonturn from now, but before he went to ride the night winds? He did not want power—at least, not in the way Bolecthindial or Manderechiel did. His new rooms were spacious enough, he could throw his boots at his servants and be certain his wishes would be followed, and he could go from his morning meal to the stables unhindered to spend a day with his beloved horses. What more could a lord of the Fortunate Lands desire? It had been his duty to rule Oronviel, and so he had, just as it had been his duty to marry Daustifalal.

Thoromarth set down his cup, got to his feet, and began to pace. You’ve taken an illness from all that time wallowing in the mud. Send for a Lightborn to clear your head. You are going to war, and you will die in battle, and you will ride with the Hunt until the stars grow cold.

When he turned about at the end of the room, Vieliessar was standing in the doorway.

The overtunic and undertunic and underskirts she wore—each layer slashed and parted to show the contrasting fabric beneath—were as decorous and correct as anything his wife or mother might have worn. She was decked with the jewels of her rank and those of a War Prince, heavy rings, bracelets, and linked collar. The veil upon her hair, held in place by a thin band of gold, hung to her waist; the heavy silk swaying with her movements. But somehow no amount of finery could erase his clearest image of her: muddy and bruised and dangerous as a drawn sword, standing before him and demanding he yield everything he was to her.

“My lord,” he said, “your message must have gone astray—” He could only imagine he’d been bidden to attend her, and when he had not appeared, she’d come looking for him.

“I sent no message,” she answered. “May I enter? I wished to see you before you slept. You must be weary. Ambrant looked as if he might collapse at any moment.”

“It was a hard journey,” Thoromarth said curtly, gesturing for her to enter.

“And you do not know—still—what prompted me to such foolishness. Did Ambrant tell you of the Astromancer’s decision?”

“That he will not step down and that I must ask you for the rest. My lord, the plots of the Hundred Houses are enough—I do not wish to know the intrigues the Green Robes may have.”

“And yet you must,” Lord Vieliessar answered, seating herself, “for it concerns Oronviel most of all. Sit.”

He would have been happier, Thoromarth decided when she had finished the tale, never to know these things at all, though in the end it was as simple a matter as a border war between Ullilion and Caerthalien. The Chief Astromancer intrigued to make himself a power in the land. Lord Vieliessar feared Oronviel would become culpable for his deeds in the eyes of the Hundred Houses. She had taken steps to make it seem she and the Astromancer plotted together, and so avert attack upon Oronviel before she was ready to move.

“I thank you for this word to me,” Thoromarth said.

Unexpectedly, she laughed. It was neither bitter nor mocking, but full, and bright, and joyous.

“No you do not, Lord Thoromarth! You wish I had never come to trouble you and fill your head with a thousand unthinkable things you must think about! Now you wonder what I will do next, and hope you do not know. But I have troubled your rest enough. And so I leave you in peace.”

She got to her feet in a swish of silk, and before he could rise in deference, was out the door and gone. And suddenly Thoromarth hoped the Silver Hooves would grant him years enough to see Lord Vieliessar upon the Unicorn Throne, for he yearned to hear the squalls and protests of his fellow princes as she made a Code of Peace like the Code of Battle and held every soul in the land to its observance, whether they were of high birth or low

Peace! Your reign brings a thousand gifts, Lord Vieliessar, but peace is not among them.

Lord Bolecthindial unrolled the map Lengiathion Warlord had prepared and spread it flat against the surface of his table. The drawing was so careful and detailed it might almost have been the thing itself, seen as a hawk upon the wing would see it. The map showed Caerthalien and the western lands as far as the Sanctuary. Ullilion’s defenses were painted in purple and saffron, Caerthalien’s in gold and green, Cirandeiron’s in blue and silver. The ruins of Farcarinon’s border keeps were sketched in a dull grey.

In War Season, Caerthalien rode to war. Other Houses might refrain from sending challenges with their Midwinter envoys, might spend the summer moonturns battling the Beastlings—as did Daroldan or the domains of the East—or in hunting outlaws or putting down rebellion among their own lords, seeking to grow wealthy and strong by avoiding battle.

Not Caerthalien. Caerthalien rode to war. Even last year, when Runacarendalur had led Caerthalien’s meisne against the Free Companies, Bolecthindial and his other sons had taken the field against their enemies. Each successful campaign brought wealth, and sometimes land, and often surrender-pledges from its defeated enemies. Among the twelve High Houses, only three had ever rivaled Caerthalien in wealth and power: Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, and Farcarinon.

Farcarinon was gone, and this season Lord Bolecthindial meant to take Ullilion from Cirandeiron. War Prince Dendinirchiel Ullilion held the southern border of Farcarinon, and Dendinirchiel looked to Cirandeiron. But between Ullilion and Cirandeiron lay the vast wilderness of Farcarinon. To come to Ullilion’s aid, Lord Girelrian would have to cross the whole of Farcarinon. It would give Caerthalien the advantage.

And why should it not give us more than that? Farcarinon has lain fallow for a century. It is time for the true spoils of victory to be apportioned.

If Caerthalien could force Ullilion to cede enough territory, Ullilion’s only recourse would be to expand her borders west and claim Farcarinon land. Censure for the act of claiming a part of Lost Farcarinon would fall on Dendinirchiel’s head, not Bolecthindial’s—and each season he could force Ullilion farther west, claiming always that he seized Ullilion lands, and not Farcarinon’s.

And if the sight of Ullilion’s example made High Houses agree it was a ruinous danger to leave so great an area of land unclaimed, Caerthalien would benefit twice over, for by the agreement the Grand Alliance had made in Serenthon’s time, Caerthalien could claim the third part of Farcarinon if it were claimed at all.

He turned to the report Elrinonion Swordmaster had prepared for him. Bolecthindial had little patience with sneaking about in the kitchens of his enemies, hoping someone would drop a word of their plans, but as Glorthiachiel was overfond of reminding him, if the enemy came to the field armored and weaponed, one did not bear away the victory by meeting them unarmed.

He prepared to unroll Elrinonion’s scroll, then reached for his wine instead. Inevitably it would be more of what he had heard at the beginning of Storm, and at the middle of Storm, and at the beginning of Rain. It was further inevitable that Glorthiachiel knew it already.

The powers that shape our fates mock us. We scoured Farcarinon because it had become a haven of bandits and arrogant mercenaries, thinking we plucked a weapon from the hands of Serenthon’s mad daughter. Instead she claims Oronviel—and makes of it a haven for every broken spur and gallowglass in the Fortunate Lands!

Bolecthindial had known since Midwinter that Vieliessar did not intend to simply lie quiet in Oronviel Keep and enjoy the freedom and luxury denied her at the Sanctuary of the Star. In the beginning he’d dismissed her ambitions. He’d laughed when he heard she sent her komen galloping to the eight corners of Oronviel in the dead of winter, certain it was a desperate attempt to keep them from rising against her. He’d assumed she would take decades to consolidate her rule, make a marriage alliance, and build up her armies before challenging any of the Hundred.

He’d found matters less amusing when he learned Oronviel and Ivrithir had settled their ancient quarrels. Elrinonion had sent spies into Oronviel and Ivrithir to learn more. From Ivrithir he learned Atholfol meant to support Oronviel’s claim to the Unicorn Throne. From Oronviel he learned nothing, because the agents he sent across her borders never reported back.

Bolecthindial drained his cup and reached for the pitcher to refill it. Peacebond or no, he wished they’d drowned Serenthon’s brat in her infancy. Farcarinon never does as it is ordered, and she is Farcarinon to the bone.

The silence from within Oronviel did not mean Bolecthindial or Elrinonion were in ignorance of her plans. From Great Sea Ocean to the Grand Windsward, the entire realm knew what Vieliessar was doing. The news from Oronviel was nearly enough to make the strange events at the Sanctuary dwindle into irrelevance. After all, it mattered only to the Lightborn who was Astromancer and for how long.…

But Ivrulion had sent news this morning through Mardioruin Lightbrother. At least Mardioruin is discreet, Bolecthindial thought blackly. Ivrulion knows better than to send me a message save by a Lightborn personally loyal to him—Carangil Lightbrother runs first to Glorthiachiel with everything, whether it is a scraped knee or the news that we are being invaded. And yet … there are things my son will wish no one to know until I have heard them, and so I know I have not yet heard the worst.

There was a preemptory rap upon his door, and it opened before the servant sitting beside it could ask who was there.

“It is as we thought.” Runacarendalur strode into the room, stripping off his gloves. He had come straight from the stables; his spurs and chain mail jingled as he crossed the floor. “The farmsteads upon our eastern border are deserted. Stripped.”

“How many?” Bolecthindial asked.

Runacarendalur laughed. “All of them! My troop and I rode the bounds for a sennight and saw no one, save in the border towers. And they saw nothing.”

He stopped before the desk and glanced at his father for permission before filling a second cup from the pitcher of wine. “They watch, of course. Do not think they shirk their duty to Caerthalien and to you. But they saw no smoke nor fire—nor have I ever hunted border raiders who strip a farm of every blanket and mattress. The Landbonds and their Farmholders are gone into Oronviel. Or should we call it Farcarinon now?”

Bolecthindial glared at him and did not reply.

“What news from the Sanctuary?” Runacarendalur asked with a sigh.

“Ivrulion says he has not been able to persuade Hamphuliadiel to end his term as Astromancer. He returns home at the end of the sennight.”

“That much is good to hear, at least,” Runacarendalur said.

“Is it?” his father snapped. “Then you will rejoice to learn all of Oronviel’s Postulants have vanished from the Sanctuary.”

“What?” Runacarendalur said, pausing in the act of drinking. “How? When?”

“Stop hovering.” Bolecthindial waved toward a chair, and Runacarendalur threw himself into it. “The message came through Mardioruin Lightbrother. Ivrulion could not say much. But his last letter—” Bolecthindial tapped the rolled scroll that lay on the corner of the table, its seal broken. “—said Hamphuliadiel keeps the Lightborn who have come to ask his mind all very close, offering them feasts and entertainment as if they guested in some great lord’s house. Ivrulion said he would make it his purpose to speak with our Postulants there, should he manage to contrive it so the meeting would look like mere chance.”

“’Rulion is a Prince of the Line,” Runacarendalur pointed out. “Why doesn’t he just order Hamphuliadiel to do what he wants?”

“And do what when the Astromancer refuses?” Bolecthindial asked, with heavy irony. “We cannot go to war against the Sanctuary of the Star!”

“I know.” Runacarendalur pulled his braid over his shoulder and tugged at it. “Mother wishes to see you. Before you ask, she’s seen Elrinonion’s latest report.”

Bolecthindial glanced toward the still-unopened scroll.

“I know not what Elrinonion says, but Mother says Oronviel is building up a peasant army to slaughter us all in our beds,” Runacarendalur added helpfully. “And after what I saw on the border … she might be right.”

On certain occasions, Lord Bolecthindial took his noon meal in his private rooms attended only by those whom he invited to share it. Today he dined with his wife and children, plus his Warlord and Swordmaster, as was only reasonable on the eve of War Season.

“When you sent your heir to scour Farcarinon clean of outlaws and landless mercenaries, my lord husband, I was certain that would be an end to our problems—not a beginning,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said with poisonous politeness. “How is it that any traitor knight and hedge bandit can enter Oronviel at will, and we must rely for information on the rumors that unnatural creature chooses to spread? She holds her throne by witchery, you know,” Glorthiachiel finished idly.

“Mother!” Thorogalas protested halfheartedly.

“Oh, I don’t mean Magery,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said, waving Thorogalas’s protests aside. “But there is bad blood in that Line. They are all sly and untrustworthy. Look at what her father did, after all.”

“It is nothing more than any of us would have done,” Domcariel said, and Runacarendalur glanced at his brother in surprise, for Dom was slow and deliberate off the battlefield as well as on it. “You would be the first to agree, Rune,” he added.

“I should be happy to become High King,” Runacarendalur said. “I think I would choose a different method, though.”

“It cannot possibly work,” Gimragiel said. As always, he took their mother’s part so thoroughly that he might as well have said nothing and left her to do all the talking. “But think of the disaster to the rest of us when she has lost. If Farcarinon was a refuge of outlaws, Oronviel will be a thousand times worse.”

“If I knew precisely what was happening in Oronviel, perhaps I would agree,” Lord Bolecthindial said, glaring meaningfully at his Swordmaster.

“You cannot know precisely, that is true, Lord Bolecthindial,” Elrinonion said reprovingly. “But it is widely known that no matter what the crime, to go before Oronviel’s War Prince and pledge fealty is to be pardoned. As my lord is aware, some insignificant fraction of the Free Companies escaped last year’s Harrowing of Farcarinon. They might—perhaps—be assets to an army. But the majority of outlaws are simple thieves who have no training in arms.”

“You didn’t get Foxhaven and Glasswall, Father,” Princess Angiothiel said, biting into a roast dove. “Doesn’t Glasswall winter on Sarmiorion land?”

“It doesn’t matter if they do,” Bolecthindial announced.

“And Foxhaven upon Nantirworiel, though that is even beyond Sarmiorion and the Uradabhur, so it hardly matters.” Angiothiel said, stretching out her arm to pluck a candied apricot from the tray in the center of the table. “All I know is if I commanded a Free Company and if I had seen the rest of the Free Companies slaughtered, I’d consider offering my services to the only War Prince who hadn’t been involved.”

“Don’t be foolish, ’Thia,” Thorogalas said. “They will fight for whoever pays them. They’re a Free Company.”

“And Oronviel’s coffers are fat,” Runacarendalur pointed out. He glanced at Elrinonion. “Surely Oronviel cannot keep everyone from entering and leaving, Lord Elrinonion?”

“Entering is one matter, Prince Runacarendalur. Leaving is another. And Ivrithir is a third. There I have been able to gain some information, but—as Lord Bolecthindial knows—it does not encourage.”

“I cannot believe Atholfol has made common cause with Oronviel!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said. “How could he repay our care and kindness with such treachery?”

“Perhaps he thinks his taxes are too high,” Angiothiel suggested, and Runacarendalur kicked her under the table.

“There is still time for you to be married into Haldil or Bethros,” he told his sister. “I’m sure you would enjoy life in the Grand Windsward.”

Angiothiel tossed her head and did not reply.

“I did not summon you here to squabble, nor did I summon you to discuss matters,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “In two moonturns we ride against Ullilion. The challenges have been sent. The battlefields have been agreed on. To forfeit will mean paying penalties to Ullilion.” He paused, regarding Warlord Lengiathion balefully. “Your strategy requires Ivrithir and Oronviel to raid against Cirandeiron so Cirandeiron neither rides to Ullilion’s aid nor attacks us while our army is engaged elsewhere. When I sent that Lightborn to Oronviel last autumn to gauge the girl’s temper, you told me you were satisfied.”

“My lord, Thurion Lightbrother assured me Oronviel would abide by its traditional agreements,” Lengiathion said.

“And yet—oddly enough—Thurion Lightbrother is now nowhere to be found. And Sweethallow—your gift to him upon his return to us—stands empty,” Runacarendalur pointed out. He wished ’Rulion were back from the Sanctuary. The news would be fresh, and ’Rulion had always been clever enough to fit together a hundred scattered pieces of information to make a round tale of them.

As the others bickered around the table—save for Lengiathion and Elrinonion, who were being vilified for not doing the impossible—Runacarendalur sat lost in his own thoughts. He wished he’d paid more attention to the girl when she’d lived beneath their roof. He ticked off what he knew of her, hoping the facts would make a story. Took the Green Robe. Fled the Sanctuary and vanished beyond the Astromancer’s ability to find her. Defeated Oronviel’s Warlord—formerly Farcarinon’s Warlord—in single combat. Became War Prince, sparing the former War Prince. Declared she would become High King. Began seeking alliances, while at the same time making Oronviel a haven for outlaws. Convinced one of Caerthalien’s Lightborn to betray them and aid her cause. Talked Atholfol into sending his armies into Oronviel and allowing Oronviel’s armies to hold Ivrithir’s borders.

There is something more. Something I am missing. I know that, but I do not know what it may be.

“It is obvious to anyone that this plot is Thoromarth’s, not Vieliessar’s,” Gimragiel said sharply, summoning Runacarendalur’s attention back to the table. “This foolishness about her defeating Rithdeliel Warlord in combat—we all know that’s impossible! She’d been at the Sanctuary all her life—when would she have learned swordplay? It was done so we would spare our treaty hostages. I say we should send their bodies to Oronviel so Thoromarth knows his deception has been uncovered!”

“And what will that gain us?” Runacarendalur asked. “It will not put an end to any of the things Oronviel is doing.”

“Does no one find it odd that Thoromarth executed his dear lady Daustifalal the moment that ungrateful Farcarinon brat entered his domain?” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel demanded, her voice high with anger. “And now the Astromancer acts outside of custom—and the Oronviel Lightborn in training at the Sanctuary have vanished! She has beguiled both of them. Anyone may see it.”

Everyone knew Lady Daustifalal was of Aramenthiali, Caerthalien’s ancient enemy, yet today she was “dear lady Daustifalal” to Mother. Yet we were quick enough to make common cause with Aramenthiali against Farcarinon, Runacarendalur reminded himself. Not for the first time, he wondered why his mother hated Vieliessar so much—and if she did, why had she agreed to foster her? There’d been no advantage in it.

“This solves nothing,” he said abruptly, setting down his eating knife. “Whether Thoromarth rules in Oronviel or not—whether Vieliessar plots with Hamphuliadiel Astromancer or not—Oronviel cannot go on giving sanctuary to everyone who wishes to flee their rightful overlord. Betroth me to Princess Nanduil and I will take an army to Oronviel in her name.”

“So quick to surrender Caerthalien, brother?” Princess Ciliphirilir gibed. She had let her twin carry most of the conversation at the meal, but there was not one thought Princess Angiothiel had that Princess Ciliphirilir didn’t share.

“The betrothal can be broken as soon as Thoromarth and Vieliessar are dead and their army of rabble scattered,” Runacarendalur snapped. “Or would you rather I broke the Code of Battle instead?”

“Perhaps I may be allowed to rule my own domain for a while longer?” Lord Bolecthindial said acidly. “We all agree Oronviel must be dealt with. But let us not see the threat as greater than it is. Next season is soon enough. It has been the work of years to maneuver Ullilion onto the field without Lady Dendinirchiel squalling to Daroldan before time. I will not waste this chance.”

Runacarendalur did his best to curb his irritation. This was how warfare was conducted. It always had been. Ullilion was held in clientage by Cirandeiron, and so could ask her aid, but Cirandeiron’s aid came at the price of closer entanglement. Daroldan was another Less House: far enough distant it would not seek to take Ullilion from Cirandeiron, close enough it could ask Ullilion’s aid and give aid in return. But for the first time, the ponderous ritual dance that preceded War Season struck him as dangerous. Each War Season since the end of the Long Peace had brought another tiny change in their ancient customs. The Beastlings grew bolder, the Less Houses grew more impatient, the High Houses ruthlessly tightened their grip on their weaker neighbors. The Windsward Rebellion had been the first spark laid to tinder that smoldered still. Another such spark, and the Hundred would kindle into war—and such a war as would not respect treaties or the Code of Battle.

“You need not set aside your plans, Father,” Runacarendalur said. “A campaign against Oronviel would be brief, over before you are to meet Ullilion’s army. I would not even require the levy tailles—such meisnes as the knights of our own lands hold would be sufficient.”

“Three thousand horse against Oronviel?” Domcariel said dubiously. “Oronviel can put twice that into the field.”

“With time to call them up, yes,” Runacarendalur said. “But Lord Elrinonion says they are with Ivrithir. If we attack swiftly, Oronviel will have to take the field with Ivrithir’s horse—if they will follow Thoromarth at all—and perhaps a taille or two of mercenaries who will desert once they learn no quarter is to be offered. The thing can be done—if it is done swiftly.”

“Yes. Perhaps,” Lord Bolecthindial said slowly, in tones that Runacarendalur knew from bitter experience meant he intended to give the impression of fairness and consideration while not changing his views in the least. “But I think you are making the mistake of measuring your adversaries by your own abilities. The girl is a Green Robe who has not lived outside the Sanctuary since she was a child. Thoromarth is timid and unwilling to take the audacious risks that gain the greatest reward. I need no Swordmaster to gather gossip to tell me these things. The plan they have woven between them tells me all. They will dress up servants and farmers in bright armor and arm them with swords, thinking to mislead us. And when the time comes for battle—as it will—those mist-knights will vanish like mist in the sun, just as ‘Lord’ Vieliessar’s dreams of the Unicorn Throne will vanish. And Caerthalien will remain.”

“Caerthalien will remain a jest on the tongues of the Hundred Houses!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel cried. “Husband! Speak all you wish of mist and sun and farmers! Oronviel has become a den of wolves!”

“And if it is, Mother, then any den can be easily cleared in springtide, when the wolves are blind pups,” Runacarendalur answered. He turned back to his father. “A moonturn—no more—and I shall bring you Thoromarth’s and Vieliessar’s heads. I will even drive their rabble-army across the border to prey upon Aramenthiali, if that would please you.”

“If you do not do this thing,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said in a steel-hard voice, “Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, and Telthorelandor will surely wonder if you have made a secret treaty with Oronviel’s so-called War Prince. Holding Oronviel, why should she not assert her claim to Farcarinon as well?”

“Because she will be dead!” Bolecthindial roared.

There was a moment of silence.

“You—” he said, glaring balefully at Runacarendalur, “you ride one sennight from today. Tomorrow you are betrothed to Princess Nanduil. She will accompany you to Oronviel. And you, my lady wife,” Bolecthindial said, turning to Glorthiachiel, “you will accompany the princess—and the army—so you can have the pleasure of seeing Nataranweiya’s brat slain.” Bolecthindial returned his attention to Runacarendalur. “I expect you to return with every knight you ride with. I expect my army back a moonturn after it rides, whether you have yet engaged Oronviel or no. And I say this: if this campaign you so ardently desire costs me my victory over Ullilion, you will heartily wish you had died in Oronviel.”

Bolecthindial didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed himself to his feet. The others—all save Glorthiachiel—rose hastily, standing in silence as the War Prince strode from the room.

The door slammed.

“Dining with Father is always so interesting,” Princess Angiothiel said happily.