Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER TWELVE

AN EMPIRE BOUGHT WITH MAGIC

Houses rise from Low to High, fall from High to Low, flee into the East, or are born from ambition and the fires of war. And whether a thing of scant centuries or able to boast a founding lost in the shadows of the fall of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor, every one is the whole. If all the Hundred Houses save one were to vanish like mist in morning sun, nothing would be lost, so long as one House survived.

—A History of the Hundred Houses

“You’ve looked better,” Nadalforo said, walking into Vieliessar’s pavilion.

“I’ve been on the field for three days,” Vieliessar answered. “They killed my horse. Three times,” she clarified. She was so tired she was light-headed.

Nadalforo picked up the pitcher on the table and sniffed at it to check its contents, then poured Vieliessar a cup of watered beer. “Drink this,” she said. “It must have been some horse, but never mind. You have thousands to choose from now. You could even ride Aranviorch into battle, but I don’t advise it.”

Vieliessar started to giggle with relief and exhaustion, then covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself. “You got him? Them? All of them?” she asked. Beer was better than water when one had been laboring long and hard in the hot sun, but even diluted, it made her giddy.

“We got Aranviorch out of his keep—not that hard, once you’re inside they think you belong there—and your Lightborn got everything with hooves within fifty miles of the keep. Aranviorch is here somewhere. The horses are heading for Ivrithir. I hope you trust Atholfol.”

“Yes. We won.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, your lords will think you didn’t intend to,” Nadalforo advised. “Now I’m going to bed. The only time I’ve been out of the saddle in the last ten days was when we were breaking into the keep.”

“Go,” Vieliessar said. “And Nadalforo … thank you.”

“I am your sworn vassal,” Nadalforo said, bowing.

It had been an outrageous gamble, but the only true way of winning not merely a battle, but a war. Aranviorch wished to fight far from his Great Keep to protect his herds, for they were the wealth and power of Mangiralas. It didn’t matter how many of his nobles Vieliessar slew or captured if she did not have the War Prince himself. And he could easily gain allies against her if he used his herds to bargain with.

So Vieliessar had conceived a double trap. She’d sent nearly all her Lightborn to bespell—and steal—every single animal Aranviorch owned. And she’d sent her former mercenaries to take his keep and bring him to her. Doing that had left her with barely enough Lightborn to keep those seriously wounded in battle from dying—and not enough to Heal the less badly injured so they could fight again the next day.

But I have Mangiralas’s Lightborn now, she thought. And I have Mangiralas.

Victory left her—as she thought it always would—mourning those who had died so she could gain it. She could not say the cost was too high. But it saddened her. She sent Harwing Lightbrother to the Mangiralas camp to summon Ladyholder Faurilduin to make her formal surrender. Harwing had never done envoy work before, and he was so nervous that Aradreleg finally wrote out for him what he must say. He regarded the sheet of vellum owlishly before nodding and saying he would say it off just as it was written. He walked into the center pole of the pavilion as he was leaving, and then simply fled.

“Will your Storysingers include that, when they make their songs of this day?” Aradreleg asked, trying hard not to laugh.

“I don’t think they’d believe it,” Vieliessar said gravely. “Oh, and now I must go and see War Prince Aranviorch.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

“No,” Aradreleg corrected. “First you will bathe—you smell like a wet horse—and then you will eat, and then I will find Brinnie and see if she knows the location of the chest with your gowns and second-best jewels. Then you will dress, and then you will have War Prince Aranviorch brought to you.”

“Where is my son?” Aranviorch demanded the moment he was brought into Vieliessar’s pavilion. “Prince Gatriadde—where is he?”

“Why do you think I have him?” Vieliessar answered, just as bluntly.

“Because he was taken from the keep when I was. I want him brought here at once!”

“Ah.” That answered one question that had been puzzling her—why Mangiralas had left the field in the middle of the battle, without her needing to demand a parley-halt to tell them she held the War Prince. Nadalforo must have taken Gatriadde as well as Aranviorch in order to have as a messenger someone whose word Ladyholder Faurilduin—or those in her camp—would believe. “Perhaps his mother will bring him, for I have sent for her. But you and I have unfinished business, Lord Aranviorch. I mean to have Mangiralas and your oath. Give them to me.”

“And if I do not?” Aranviorch said.

“Then you will die, and your wife will die, and your son will die, and I shall go to your keep and take it a second time, and slay all who will not swear to me. And if your army wishes to go to war with me, then it must do so afoot, for I have taken from you all the horses which are your great wealth, and they are mine already.”

“Why?” Aranviorch roared. “Mangiralas has done nothing to you!”

“Mangiralas did not surrender when I required it,” Vieliessar answered bleakly.

Ladyholder Faurilduin and Prince Gatriadde arrived within the candlemark, accompanied by Harwing Lightbrother and Camaibien Lightbrother. Vieliessar was shocked and saddened by how young the prince—now the Heir-Prince, as he must know—was, and remembered again that he and Princess Maerengiel had been of one birth.

“So you have won,” Ladyholder Faurilduin said bleakly, looking from Vieliessar to Aranviorch.

“I have,” Vieliessar said. “And now I take fealty of your husband. But not of you. Not yet. Did Camaibien give my words to you?”

“As you said them,” Lady Faurilduin said, her voice unyielding. “You did not abide by the Code of Battle!” she said accusingly.

“And yet, your knights who rode to my lines in surrender were returned to you.” Those who could still ride had been sent back to Mangiralas on palfreys after the end of each day’s battle. Those who were too badly wounded to ride had been carried onto the field on litters and left for Mangiralas to retrieve.

“You would have held them to ransom if you’d possessed Lightborn enough to Heal them,” Lady Faurilduin said accusingly.

“War is not a game,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Nor will I treat it as a game. When I have searched your camp and satisfied myself, then will I take your oath, if you will give it.”

“Never,” Lady Faurilduin said flatly.

“Faurilduin!” Aranviorch cried.

“Husband, you must do what is best for our lands. But Maerengiel has gone to ride with the Silver Hooves—slain by the cowardly weapons Lord Vieliessar sees fit to bring to the field of honor—and I will not live in a world forged upon the anvil of her devising.”

“Do not—!” Aranviorch said, and his plea was to Vieliessar, not to his wife.

“She may die with honor,” Vieliessar said, “but if she will not swear to me, she will die. And I will not take her oath until I know any of my people she took prisoner are well, for I swore to her that if she caused the deaths of any who lay helpless in her hands, she would die.”

“Then … Gatriadde, Mangiralas is yours now. Guard her well,” Aranviorch said.

“Father!” Prince Gatriadde said, horrified.

“I know you did not look for this,” Aranviorch said with dignity, “but we cannot choose our fates. Only the Silver Hooves may do that.”

“Is that your last word to me?” Vieliessar asked. Aranviorch inclined his head. Faurilduin ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. “Then let a Circle be made for Aranviorch’s death. Gatriadde, will you renounce your claim to the Unicorn Throne and swear yourself to be my loyal vassal?”

“I—I—I wasn’t supposed to be War Prince!” Gatriadde said. “It was Maeren! How can you— You can’t, Lord Vieliessar—the Horse Fair is next year, and—”

“Be silent, Gatri,” Lady Faurilduin said quietly. “Your father, your sister, and I are dead and Mangiralas is yours. You are of good stock. Trust in your breeding.” She turned away as if Gatriadde no longer existed.

Vieliessar watched Prince Gatriadde as her guards led Lord Aranviorch and Lady Faurilduin to the place they would await their executions, knowing as she did that she had her answer: Faurilduin had let prisoners in her hands die. The prince took a deep breath. “You must tell me Oronviel’s terms, Lord Vieliessar,” he said with painful dignity. “I did not expect to be War Prince.”

She repeated what she had said before—vassalage and renunciation of his claim upon the Throne. She did not detail the law to which Mangiralas would now be bound, for Gatriadde would be oathbound to do all she asked of him, and she did not think he could remember her words from one moment to the next just now.

“But the horses?” he said desperately. “You won’t hurt them, or—or take them away, or—”

“The horses of Mangiralas will be in your care,” she said, holding up her hand. She meant to strip Mangiralas of all it held, but not to destroy it.

“Yes. All right. All right. I’ll swear. I’ll do whatever you ask. But I don’t—I don’t—”

Patiently, Vieliessar took Gatriadde through the phrases of the oath, then had Aradreleg set the spell so he could swear. She had to prompt him several times, and when it was over, he burst into tears.

“There, young lord, hush,” Camaibien said, going to him and taking the new War Prince in his arms. “It’s done and you’ll take no more hurt of it. The Silver Hooves have chosen to give Mangiralas into Oronviel’s care, and we must trust in Them, for do They not ride horses more glorious than any we can dream of breeding? Just so. As horse and rider promise to keep one another safe, so shall Mangiralas and Oronviel keep one another now.”

“Yes, I—yes. That is so,” Gatriadde said. “I may keep him, can’t I?” he said in sudden fear, turning to Vieliessar.

“If it is his wish to remain with you, I will not take him from you,” Vieliessar said, speaking gently, as to a child. Gatriadde was barely more than a boy, and even if he were to have become War Prince, it should not have been for many centuries. “But I shall need him to return to your camp now and bring to me the Lightborn of Mangiralas, for I have need of them.”

“I’ll go with him,” Gatriadde said. “I should. I’m War Prince now.”

“Yes,” Vieliessar said. “If you please, go with Lord Gunedwaen to our horselines, and you may choose palfreys to bear you.”

Gatriadde nodded jerkily. Gunedwaen stepped to the door of the tent and gestured for the new War Prince to precede him. Camaibien moved to follow, but Vieliessar rose to her feet, gesturing to him to approach her.

“If you take two candlemarks to return my prisoners and bring your Lightborn to me, his parents will be dead by the time he returns,” she said quietly. “He need only see their bodies on the pyre.”

“If you had showed such honor in war as you do in victory, my young lord would not be forced to a task so far beyond his skill,” Camaibien said sorrowfully.

“I will not leave your young lord undefended,” Vieliessar answered. “My word to you.”

There was rejoicing in the camp the evening of the victory, for not only had Vieliessar won, but Princess Nothrediel and Prince Monbrauel were among those prisoners returned by Mangiralas. If the war had continued many more days, Thoromarth would have lost two more of his children, for while Lady Faurilduin had not executed any of the prisoners she had taken, neither had she allowed their injuries to be Healed by Lightborn, and about a third of those she had captured had died.

Bethaerian was among the dead.

I should not care more for her life because she was known to me.

Vieliessar left her victory feast early, for she felt an uneasiness in her mind which she would not impart to her commanders. She passed her sentries and walked out among the pyres. Here the War Prince of Mangiralas and his lady. There, the Heir-Princess of Mangiralas. Bethaerian. Virry. Janondiel. She might count until the sun rose and not number all her dead.

“It is not a light thing if you were not raised to it.”

Vieliessar glanced back. Nadalforo had followed her from the camp and now stood watching her.

“It should not be a light thing even so,” Vieliessar answered, and Nadalforo shrugged.

“It is war,” she said. “In war, some die.”

“Why do we fight?” Vieliessar asked. Impulse, but also the question that had burned in her even before she ever accepted her destiny.

Nadalforo laughed, a short bark of laughter that held no mirth. “For land, for power, for advantage, for vengeance. You fight to become High King, but I do not know why.”

“To end this,” Vieliessar answered. “And because the day will come when we can no longer quarrel among ourselves.”

Vieliessar turned away, gazing out over the battlefield—the encampment of the dead. I am lonely, she realized in surprise. It had been years—decades—since she had been a servant in the Sanctuary, spending happy evenings in the Servants’ Hall or in the Common Room with friends. She had lost them one by one. She rubbed her hand over her face.

“Victory rides with the clever,” Nadalforo replied. “So far you have been clever enough.”

I have been lucky, Vieliessar thought, turning back to gaze out over the pyres. “The Silver Hooves grant—” she began. She did not finish the sentence. Nadalforo had gone.

It was a moonturn and a half after the defeat of Mangiralas, but Vieliessar and her people had not stood idle. All across the West, rebellion had spread like wildfire, causing more folk to flock to her banner. Places had needed to be found for all, and this time the newcomers were not only the commonfolk of the Less Houses of the West, but their Lords Komen and great nobles as well. Where she could, Vieliessar had sent troops to support the Less Houses as they fought the High, but she hoped to avoid becoming embroiled in a drawn-out campaign in the west—and one with a score of commanders, all with different goals.

Nor had Vieliessar herself been idle, for there were other Western Houses whose fealty she must gain though they would never join her in battle. So she had gone to take promises of Amrolion and Daroldan, traveling to the Western Shore to do so.

Now it was time for the next step in her plan. She had always meant to take the Unicorn Throne with as little fighting as possible. Now she meant to cement her victory with retreat.

“We shall take Ullilion next,” Vieliessar said, indicating it on the map. “Then I shall divide the army.”

“Divide it?” Rithdeliel said. “Is that wise?”

“It is necessary,” Vieliessar answered. “One third shall go to Thoromarth, one third to Atholfol, and the third part to you, Rithdeliel. Thoromarth, you must ride against Tunimbronor, Vorogalast, and Sierdalant. These Less Houses are disputed between Aramenthiali and Vondaimieriel.”

“And neither one will appreciate me riding in to snatch them from their grasp,” Thoromarth said. “You should take Aramenthiali first, then those Less Houses.”

“If I had an army as great as Aramenthiali’s, I would do so gladly,” Vieliessar answered tartly. “But I do not. Yet you may not face as much opposition as you think. Vondaimieriel did not declare for Serenthon during his attempt to gain the High Kingship, but neither did she oppose him. And Finfemeras Vondaimieriel was similarly evasive when I sent to him at Midwinter.”

“Vondaimieriel’s got her back to the Mystrals,” Thoromarth pointed out. “Finfemeras is cautious. Vondaimieriel can’t afford to lose territory in war. She has no place to go.”

“There will be fighting all through that region,” Gunedwaen said. “Aramenthiali battles Vondaimieriel this season. Vorogalast and Sierdalant are in clientage to Aramenthiali; Tunimbronor to Vondaimieriel. I don’t suppose I need to mention that Caerthalien attacks Ullilion as well?”

“Then my task will be easier, for Ullilion will be embattled by two foes,” she said.

There was a moment of silence, then Thoromarth spoke. “It is not that I am not grateful to be given an army and a hopeless task,” he said, “but you speak of three elements to your army, and yet you claim none of them for yourself. Where will you be?”

“I shall buy us time,” Vieliessar answered.

But time could only be bought with information, and so after the meeting had drawn to a close, Vieliessar dismissed her commanders and retreated to the inner chamber of her pavilion to gain it.

One of the things that had bemused—and amused—Vieliessar once she became War Prince of Oronviel was her discovery of the portable spellkits (so called by the Lightless) the Lightborn used. It was true that to cast any of the spells she had learned within the Sanctuary, all that was needed was the power of a Flower Forest and a Mage’s own Light, but it was also true that many spells required a particular stillness or a period of cleansing meditation. Nearly all Lightborn meditated regularly, both to still their thoughts, and to take the opportunity to touch the Light without needing to use it.

In the Sanctuary, the elements necessary to ease a Lightborn’s path were available in every practice room and sleeping chamber. Outside the Sanctuary, Lightborn might be called to follow their masters on progress, on campaign, or simply to move from manor to manor. To be certain they had with them all they needed, they had evolved the custom of storing their favored items in a special case, which they brought with them wherever they went or were sent.

The one she now used had been Celeharth’s.

Made of ivory, it was covered in pebbled, iridescent, red-gold leather: gryphon skin. The hide had worn away at the corners of the box through centuries of handling, and the ivory, yellowed with age, showed through.

The hinges and the clasps were simple things, for any of the Lightborn could Seal a container so utterly it could not be opened by the Lightless, but they were beautifully wrought, of fine gold, in the fashion of feathers. The interior of the box was padded and had been shaped to hold its contents immobile: one fat and two narrow storage canisters, a small cordial bottle, a brazier, a teapot, and a teacup.

The pot and cup were of unadorned shin’zuruf—their beauty came from their exquisite shape and delicacy. The cordial bottle was much the same as any that might have been found within the Sanctuary, but made of white amber instead of the traditional crystal. It did not hold medicine but rather a flower cordial that could be mixed with water. The narrow canisters were of gold, their surfaces elaborately etched with the form of a dragon. One held charcoal disks, the other, Light-incense. The last was the traditional cherry-bark tea canister; this still held tea that Celeharth had blended with his own hands.

The tiny brazier was very old—older, Vieliessar thought, than Celeharth—and carved of cinnabar in the form of a coiling dragon holding a golden bowl in its claws. None of the histories she’d read mentioned dragons as living creatures—but then everything she’d read said unicorns didn’t exist, either, and she’d seen one. She wondered if dragons—assuming there were dragons—looked anything like the carving.

She made her preparations with quick efficiency, lighting the charcoal, measuring the tea, pouring water over it from the iron kettle. Once it had brewed, she sipped it slowly, relishing its subtle flavors as she willed her spirit to stillness. When the cup was empty, she spilled tiny grains of golden incense onto the burning charcoal and inhaled the familiar fragrant smoke.

She was ready.

Since the night she had sent him eastward to be her voice to the War Princes of the Grand Windsward, she had done her best to remain in touch with Thurion. There were more reasons than self-interest for her actions: the Lightborn of the Windsward Houses were certainly receiving news from the Houses that held them in clientage, and Thurion must be able to set her facts against his own.

Thurion? Thurion, are you there?

Every Lightborn experienced Farspeech differently. Hers showed her the place she ’Spoke to as if she stood there in flesh.

For a long moment there was no answer, no sense of another place forming its image behind her eyes, and the worry that Thurion might be lost or dead was almost enough to break her concentration.

Then: “Vielle? Oh, thank the Light! It has been so long since we have ’Spoken, and I have heard so many tales of you…”

She opened her inward eyes and an image slowly came into focus. He sat in a chamber that was clearly the accommodation of an honored guest—she could tell by the tapestries on the walls, the furnishings, the carpets upon the floors. But the windows were nothing more than narrow slits, instead of the ones she knew from the Great Keeps of Caerthalien, Oronviel, and Laeldor: wide open ones hung with shutters of fragrant wood or filled with designs in colored glass. It was clear from the openings in the walls that the walls were much thicker than they should be in any chamber meant to house anything but a prisoner. Thurion was an honored guest somewhere in the Grand Windsward, then, for the thick walls were meant to keep out more than the wind and its winter chill.

“I have been much occupied these last sennights, I fear,” she answered. “I took Mangiralas as I said I would. War Prince Gatriadde has sworn fealty to me.”

“Gatriadde?” Thurion’s mental voice blurted, “but—”

“All the rest of the Line Direct are dead,” she answered, knowing Thurion could feel the sorrow in her thoughts. “But after Mangiralas, I forged treaties with Amrolion and Daroldan while my army fought elsewhere. I hold much of the West. But what of you? When I last heard, you had reached Encherelimier to place your petition before Celelioniel’s own House.”

“And so I did,” Thurion answered; Vieliessar felt the exasperation in his voice. “It is hard to travel here—they set their castels far from the Flower Forests to preserve themselves from attack, so I could not go in person, but I Spoke to many, even Hallorad. And you may see what has come of my careful work!

“The Grand Windsward is at war. Some of the Twenty see only a second chance to free themselves from the High Houses, but some look farther than that—Vielle, you do not know what it is like to live here. There is never a time when one may know himself to be safe! I do not think there is a single boundary stone anywhere here, for it would be death to set them and the Beastlings would only remove them.”

“It is much like the Western Shore,” she answered softly. “There are no villages there, only great keeps of stone where all shelter, from lord to Landbond. From Damulothir’s own Great Keep I watched Beastlings pluck fisherfolk from the shore as you might pluck berries from the bush.”

“So you have seen what it is like to live constantly embattled,” Thurion said. “Give the Twenty an honorable reason to come across the Feinolons once and for all, and who would not? But for now, I may tell you that Penenjil and six more will fight beneath your banner. Antanaduk, Rutharban, Cazagamba, and Narazan say they will give their answer next War Season. Hallorad stands neutral, as always, but Dalwath Hallorad says Hallorad will sue for terms once you have won. The others support either Bethros or Haldil, or else pretend to in order to make their own bid to become Lord of the Grand Windsward when the rest are weakened by battle.”

“Seven is better than I dared to hope,” she said. The sense of his words caught up to her abruptly. “You said they will fight for me, Thurion. But I need them to renounce their claims to the Unicorn Throne.”

“They have promised to do so if you win against the Twelve.” Thurion’s response was troubled.

Vieliessar gave an exasperated sigh. Promises were easily broken, and if she did not hold the fealty of a domain’s War Prince, its knights could leave the field for any of a score of “honorable” reasons. It was still more than she’d thought she’d get.

“When can they join me?” she asked.

“The caravans leave for the Sanctuary each spring as soon as Nantirworiel Pass opens,” Thurion said. “It is a long way from the Grand Windsward to the west.”

Vieliessar made a faint sound of exasperation, but Thurion was right. The tribute caravans took moonturns to cross the Feinolon Peaks, the desert of the Arzhana, the Bazrahil Range, and the Mystrals on their way west. When the High Houses had gone east to break the Windsward Rebellion, they had made up their arrays mainly from levies upon their clientage Houses in the Uradabhur rather than move the whole of their own meisnes eastward.

She sighed in acceptance. “They will come when they will come.” As much as she might rail against the indecisiveness of the Windsward Houses, she would not herself choose a course that would force her army to overwinter in a hostile place. If I had any choice about it, she thought wryly. “But you may say to them that to join me, they need not go so far as Vondaimieriel,” she went on. “Soon I come east—I shall cross the Mystrals just before the Dragon’s Gate closes, and take the Uradabhur over the winter. It will be spring before the Alliance can follow me—if it dares to. Let my allies join me there, when it pleases them to do so.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Vieliessar had a dim sense of her own pavilion around her, the incense smoke blending with the ever-present scent of horse and dust. That faded as Thurion spoke again

“You can’t possibly…” he said in disbelief. “Vielle … even with just the folk of Oronviel, it would take sennights for you to get everyone through the Dragon’s Gate. And now you have…”

“Twenty domains,” Vieliessar said. “Their folk, their cattle, their komen. Twenty.” And five more she might yet prize loose from the Alliance, if she were quick and clever. She might make of herself and them such a High House as Jer-a-kaliel had never seen …

And it would be extinguished within her lifetime.

“That … I cannot imagine so many folk in one place,” Thurion said in awe. “You can never move them east in secret. Once the Alliance sees what you mean to do, they will stop you. They’ll stop you before you take the pass—Vondamieriel has only to send to Jaeglenhend, and—”

“And she will not,” Vieliessar answered simply. “For she will not think to. My enemies will be elsewhere, waiting for me.”

“You have a plan,” Thurion said slowly, and the dread in his voice made her smile. “Vielle, what do you mean to do?”

“Wait and see,” she answered. “Wait and see.…”

As early as Rain Moon, the Old Alliance had agreed Vieliessar was a danger, but they were already committed to their summer’s wars and saw no reason to change those plans—until Vieliessar took Laeldor and announced her Lightborn would renounce Mosirinde’s Covenant. A moonturn later, she rode to victory against Mangiralas and word came that she had executed all but one of its ruling House.

After that, disaster followed disaster.

The Windsward Houses proclaimed their independence from the West for the second time in a scant half-century.

The Houses of the Arzhana recalled their levy knights.

The Houses of the Uradabhur fell silent, refusing to answer demands for information, for troops, for supplies.

In the west, a score of Less Houses—among them Ullilion—declared for the High King. The Twelve could neither outwait them nor attack each of them in turn, for with their declarations, their War Princes summoned their teind-levies home: craftworkers and Landbond and even, sometimes, Lightborn and knights. The commons didn’t matter—most of them were running off anyway—but the loss of troops and Lightborn dealt the Twelve a crippling blow.

And so Caerthalien rode against Ullilion not for its own enrichment, but in aid of Cirandeiron, for Cirandeiron was attempting to hold Less House Brabamant, and, unable to extend itself further when Ullilion also declared for Lord Vieliessar, had called upon Caerthalien for aid.

And Caerthalien gave it.

Unthinkable even in the days of the Old Alliance. But if the Less Houses of the West succeeded in joining forces with Vieliessar, she would at last have what she’d sought from the very beginning: an army large enough to take the field against all four of the greatest High Houses—and win.

We should have killed her, Runacarendalur thought bitterly. We should have bribed the Astromancer to kill her. What does she know of war, of ruling, of caring for the lands on which you were born so you may pass them on in sacred trust to your own child?

Nothing.

The shame of knowing this creature was his destined Bondmate was worse than knowing he would never rule Caerthalien. With his own death, he could end her life instantly. A blade in the night silence of his chambers. A moment’s deliberate inattention on the battlefield. He should have—he knew that now. But by the time she’d taken Laeldor, it was too late. The rot of her preachings had spread like summer wildfire and suddenly the High Houses were fighting for their very survival.

Caerthalien was fighting.

“Skill makes up for strength. As it is in a komen, so it is in a House. The High Houses are strong, so they need not be clever. The Less Houses are weak. They can afford no imprudence—in battle or in alliance.”

Elrinonion Swordmaster had said those words to Runacarendalur long ago: then they had puzzled him, but during this terrible War Season, he’d had their truth proved to him over and over. Lengiathion Warlord approved no tactics that had not been used by his greatfathers. Caution and superior numbers did not win battles, but Lengiathion’s strategy at least prevented the losing of them.

Against War Prince Vieliessar these tactics would be a disaster.

None of his siblings possessed Runacarendalur’s skill in warfare. His House needed him. Runacarendalur of Caerthalien would serve his House to the last beat of his heart. Whether it wanted that service or not.

“Fall back!” Runacarendalur shouted. He stared wildly around himself. His meisne was scattered and Helecanth was nowhere in sight. “Fall back!” he bawled again, striving to make himself heard over the roar of battle. Ullilion had regrouped and Caerthalien couldn’t stand additional losses.

Hating his own necessity, Runacarendalur struck at the destrier of his enemy rather than at the rider. His sword bit into the side of the animal’s neck. Blood sprayed and Runacarendalur urged Gwaenor forward. He could feel the stallion laboring for breath, just as he was, for the air was thick with smoke. Ullilion’s Lightborn had called Lightning down against Caerthalien’s army early in the day. If Ivrulion had not already ordered the Caerthalien Lightborn onto the battle lines, their losses would have been unimaginable. Shield had protected them, but it could not protect the grass and the trees, and the summer was a dry one.

His fury at being forced to fight this unclean battle gave strength to Runacarendalur’s aching muscles, and his opponent could not defend himself while trying to control his wounded destrier. Runacarendalur bludgeoned him until he fell from the saddle and Gwaenor battered his armored body into ruin.

For a blessed moment no one was attacking him. Runacarendalur tried to orient himself, but they’d had to abandon the war banners because Ullilion’s Lightborn had been using them as targets. He wasn’t sure where he was on the field or whose meisnes were beside him. The wind shifted and smoke poured directly over the Caerthalien line. Runacarendalur tried to shout again and choked instead. His ribs ached from blows taken and from the coughing spasms brought on by smoke.

Suddenly—as welcome as a dipper of cool water—came the mellow call of a Caerthalien warhorn. The smoke skirled and thinned and Helecanth appeared. Her white destrier was grey with smoke, and her surcoat was charred in a dozen places and filthy with blood. But she led a dozen knights of Caerthalien. When she saw Runacarendalur she gestured, using handsign because even if she could be heard, her voice was undoubtedly as raw as his. What orders?

Retreat, Runacarendalur signaled.

Quickly they gathered the scattered line of Caerthalien knights for an orderly retreat. They’d been the deosil wing of the army. Prince Gimragiel had the center, though Runacar had argued long and loud against that, for ’Ragi was quick to anger and reckless on the field once he lost his temper. The plan of battle the senior commanders had settled among them the night before had survived barely halfway into the first charge across the battlefield. Now Runacarendalur didn’t know where Caerthalien’s center was or if either of his brothers yet lived.

His plan was to retreat to his own lines, collect his reserve force, and try to locate the rest of the army. It would have worked if he’d actually known where his own lines were. Instead, he led the company directly into a force of Ullilion knights.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ivrulion said.

“Tell that to Father, I’m sure he’ll believe you,” Runacarendalur snarled.

The pavilion smelled of wet cloth, wet leather, and grease. The rain made everything worse. Ullilion’s Lightborn had worked the weather to douse the last of the fires and wash the smoke from the air. And spoil their harvest. If anyone cares about that, Runacarendalur thought furiously.

He’d barely managed to fight free of the Ullilion knights they’d run into. The wind had freshened and sight-lines had cleared, so he and his knights had headed for the tree line. From there, he’d managed to orient himself and lead his force back to their own lines. By then the day’s fighting was nearly over. Just as well, since most of his surviving knights were injured.

“Ullilion’s Lightborn cast Confusion on the center of the field. It is a minor spell of Overshadowing, bound to an object. We must give thanks their Lightborn are as incompetent at warcraft as ours are—as many of their own knights were bespelled as ours,” Ivrulion said. As he spoke, he carefully sponged the blood away from the cut on his brother’s thigh. If there were a piece of metal or leather left in the injury after it was Healed, wound-rot could set in.

“Oh, stop that!” Runacarendalur snapped irritably, swatting at Ivrulion. He tried to get to his feet but sank back onto the chest with a hiss of pain. The wash water was infused with AllHeal and Night’s Daughter, but they only dulled the pain a little. The gash was the worst of his injuries; the locking-pins holding his right cuisse in place had been sheared through by a previous blow and he was lucky the second strike hadn’t cut through the bone.

“I can certainly take my Magery elsewhere,” Ivrulion said. “But if this isn’t seen to, you won’t be fit to fight for the rest of the season.”

Suddenly there was the sound of a scream, loud enough to be heard over the drumming of the rain. Runacarendalur again tried to struggle to his feet.

“Sit still,” Ivrulion said. “It’s nothing. Dom is torturing the prisoners for information.”

“It makes more work for our Lightborn,” Runacarendalur said uneasily. He’d watched adherence to the Code of Battle slip a little more each War Season since the end of the Long Peace, but he’d never been comfortable with it. He’d made an oath to the Starry Hunt to uphold the Code on the day his father gave him his sword and spurs, and the Silver Hooves spurned oathbreakers.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ivrulion said. “We can’t afford to waste Healing on the enemy and we can’t let Ullilion ransom them. I’ve told him he’s wasting his time questioning them about ’Ragi, but you know how stubborn he is.”

Runacarendalur sighed. “’Ragi still hasn’t come back?”

“No. He might be on the field, but nobody’s going to find him in this rain. We’ll search again in the morning.”

“Wine,” Runacarendalur said, and Serogon jumped to his feet to bring the pitcher. “It’s freezing in here,” he muttered after drinking. “Take some for yourself,” he said to the body servant. “At least it’s something.”

“When my evening’s duties are finished, Prince Runacarendalur,” Serogon answered.

“No one listens to me,” Runacarendalur complained.

“That’s because you have a foul temper when you’re injured,” Ivrulion said. “At least you started that gash bleeding strongly enough that I think it’s clean. Now hold still and shut up.”

Ivrulion placed both hands flat against Runacarendalur’s skin and closed his eyes. There was the familiar flash of panic Runacarendalur always felt at being Healed, the moment of heat that seemed to start at his bones and radiate outward, and then it was done. There was fresh blood still on his skin, but the skin itself was whole and unbroken once more. He leaned over to pluck the cloth from the basin and wipe the skin clean to see.

“You always do that,” Ivrulion said. “Don’t you think I know what I’m doing?”

“Of course,” Runacarendalur said. He yawned. The other thing he hated about Healings was the flat feeling of exhaustion that followed. “It’s just that—” He yawned again.

“Get some sleep,” Ivrulion said.

“Soon,” Runacarendalur promised. He stood, cautiously testing his leg. It was always strange to expect pain that didn’t come. “I need to see Lengiathion first.” He snapped his fingers, and Serogon hurried over, carrying boots and a robe.

“He won’t have answers for you,” Ivrulion said.

“Then at least I can make his life as miserable as everyone else’s,” Runacarendalur answered.

What should have been a long summer twilight was dark with out-of-season rain instead. Globes of Silverlight made the pavilions glow like colored lanterns and more pale azure globes hung in the air above the streets of the camp, but they seemed to give less light than usual. It didn’t matter. Runacarendalur could find his way among the tents blindfolded.

He reached his destination and ducked under the pavilion’s awning, tossing his dripping cloak to a waiting servant. Inside it was as damp as every other place in camp, but Lord Lengiathion had managed to arrange for braziers, so at least his pavilion was warm. The senior commanders were all gathered here: Rolason, Gambrinian, Livarre, Meralastant, even Elrinionion. Caerthalien had sent her finest to this battle.

“Has there been any word?” Runacarendalur asked, walking over to the nearest brazier.

“No.” Lengiathion shook his head. “The servants are out on the field, of course, but—”

“It’s dark and it’s wet,” Runacarendalur finished wearily.

There was another scream, fainter with distance.

“I told him it’s useless,” Elrinionion said. “We could barely mark our own companies on the field today, and after the first charge, no one carried banners. Why does Prince Domcariel think Ullilion’s komen will know where Prince Gimragiel lies?”

“Because he wants them to,” Runacarendalur said. “If we aren’t waiting for anyone but Dom, I will not delay our meal longer. Ivrulion will be some time yet in the Healing tents.”

They seated themselves and the servants brought in the first course. The talk ran much as it would in the evening after any battle, save that tonight it turned upon the Magery used by Ullilion.

“If everyone is going to start throwing thunderbolts at each other, why take the field at all? Just stay home and have your Lightborn reduce your enemy’s keep to slag,” Lord Livarre said irritably.

“I say the Lightborn should keep the beer from spoiling and make my komen ready to fight each day and leave the rest to us. They don’t understand war. Why should they? Your brother is an exception of course, Prince Runacarendalur,” Lord Rolason said, nodding in Runacarendalur’s direction.

“If they’re going to throw thunderbolts at us, we need to throw thunderbolts at them,” Lord Lengiathion said. “Will you speak to your brother, Prince Runacarendalur?”

“I can speak to him,” Runacarendalur said. “But he’ll tell you what he told me: we need to think carefully before we overturn ancient customs. Do we really wish to do things just because Lord Vieliessar does them? And we cannot expect the Lightborn to fight all day and then Heal all night. They are stretched thin as it is.”

“You must decide whether you wish to slay your enemy by Magery or have komen on the field,” Ivrulion Light-Prince said, stepping into the pavilion. “My Lightborn cannot do both.”

He walked over to the table and sat down beside Runacar. His hair and robes were as dry as if he hadn’t walked across the camp in a rainstorm and Runacarendalur spared a moment for wistful envy. There were a few spells of Magery he wouldn’t mind being able to cast.

“Yet Vieliessar Oathbreaker’s Lightborn seem to have no difficulty doing so,” Lengiathion said. “Oronviel took Laeldor by Magery—and Mangiralas too.”

“And many komen died in Mangiralas who might have lived had she not,” Runacarendalur said with a sigh. “My lords, this wrangling gains us nothing. What of tomorrow’s battle?”

“I shall send for the maps once we have eaten,” Lengiathion said. “Let us see if we can manage not to get the rest of our komen killed. The purpose of war is to inconvenience the enemy, not ourselves.”

“The purpose of war is to win.” Runacarendalur heard the ghostly whisper in his mind and could not say where the thought had come from.

But he was afraid that he knew.

Gwaenor shifted nervously beneath him, obviously wondering why they were standing here, rank upon rank in such silence, without horns or drums or the clash of steel. It was late in Fire Moon, a time of hot breathless days and a sky the color of hammered silver. Runacarendalur could look to his left and see the yellow and blue of Aramenthiali, to the right and see the blue and silver of Cirandeiron: two thousand knights, the honored nobility of the High Houses. The lords and ladies of every court west of the Mystrals had come to Farcarinon to see the infamous Vieliessar brought low. In the front rank the War Princes themselves waited, armed and armored, each with their Warlord beside them. A few yards beyond the first rank of silent, waiting horsemen the grass was covered with an enormous white carpet woven with a design of pine boughs in threads of gold and silver, signaling that this was a meeting in truce. Above this was a canopy of white linen as sheer as silk, held up by four poles of ashwood thickly covered in pure gold. The carpet sparkled like winter snow in moonlight, for the canopy did nothing to block the sun.

Beyond the canopy was a wide, shallow brook. The Toharthay was the division they’d agreed on; the far side was Vieliessar’s sovereign territory, the near side was theirs. Runacarendalur remembered fighting across the Meadows of Aralhathumindrion years earlier. Then it had been a broad, pleasant meadow edged with mature forest. Now the forest had been cut back until only the Flower Forest remained, to accommodate the pavilions of all who gathered here. They stretched on for miles, a joyous fair. Children flew kites and nobles flew hawks; there had been great feasts held every night and contests of skill each day for the past fortnight. If not for the fact that the thousands gathered here had scared away any game worth hunting, it would have been idyllic—war without pain and loss.

She will come soon, Runacarendalur told himself. The day, the candlemark, every detail of this meeting had been worked out in advance, during a moonturn of arguing with intermediaries. There had not even been an exchange of hostages; if Vieliessar did not come to parley, the Alliance’s armies would attack.

So she will die, and I will die with her, for we are bound together and our hearts beat as one. Surely it is some curse placed upon Caerthalien that I should be so bound to this enemy. At least her death will buy a time of peace in which Domcariel can learn how to rule.

Prince Gatriadde had come to Cirandeiron sennights ago, begging for the chance to take revenge upon the monster who had slain his sister and parents and stolen his domain. He knew every secret place where Vieliessar’s army lodged, and Camaibien Lightbrother, who had accompanied him, had drawn detailed maps.

The few scouts the High Houses had dared to send into Mangiralas confirmed Prince Gatriadde’s story, so the Alliance had sent an envoy to Vieliessar, offering her and everyone in her army a full pardon in exchange for surrender, saying the disposition of her forces was known and War Season was drawing to a close.

And instead of seeking honorable battle, the Child of the Prophecy, the “destined High King” wept like a child and begged to be allowed to surrender. Now all that remained was the parley, under flags of a truce the Alliance meant to break.

Finally there was the distant sound of a horn. Vieliessar and her escort were approaching. They rode from the trees at the far edge of Aralhathumindrion: Vieliessar and two tailles of knights. She carried the parley banner on a slender ashwood rod, the enormous rectangle of white silk floating on the summer breeze. Each side would carry such a banner: the parley truce was in effect so long as both were held high.

Vieliessar’s helmet was crowned with a wreath of pine boughs and there was another garland of them about her destrier’s neck. She had changed her armor—instead of the familiar silver, she and all her knights wore green armor and were mounted on white destriers, and Runacarendalur saw, with a sensation of incredulity, that she and her komen wore the silver and green of Farcarinon. That was bad enough, but instead of Farcarinon’s silver wolf, she claimed the Unicorn as her badge.

Wait, he thought in sudden alarm. That isn’t her.

He could not say how he knew, but he was certain. Does she think she can meet under a truce-flag without letting us see her face?

Even if Runacarendalur wanted to give warning, he could not. The protocol for a Parley of Surrender was rigid and exact, its form unchanged for thousands of years. A shout of warning, an unexpected movement from any of the attendants on either side would be considered an attack. If the Alliance did not abide by the protocols Vieliessar would still be dead … but they would never regain the Houses of the East.

And so he could only watch helplessly as the False Vieliessar and her escort rode at a slow walk toward the Toharthay. At the edge of the stream they stopped and the woman raised her visor, exposing her face for all to see.

She looked like Vieliessar. Runacarendalur leaned forward in disbelief. It is not her! he insisted to himself.

The massed knights-herald of the Alliance sounded a set of signals. Truce—the foe is in sight—the foe awaits—the parley begins. The knight at the False Vieliessar’s side raised his visor and put his own warhorn to his lips, sounding an identical set of calls.

A Lightborn Runacarendalur did not know came from the Alliance side to test for spellcraft. The False Vieliessar had brought a Lightborn as well. Both indicated there was no Magery being used here. Runacarendalur ground his teeth in frustration. How could the man not see?

As the two Lightborn retreated, the first rank of riders set their horses walking slowly forward.

Bolecthindial Caerthalien, Manderechiel Aramenthiali, Girelrian Cirandeiron, Clacheu Denegathaiel, Chardararg Lalmilgethior, Ferorthaniel Sarmiorion … every High House War Prince in the West was in the group riding slowly toward the canopy and the carpet. Each was accompanied by their Warlord, and Caerthalien had supplied the knight-herald, so the numbers on both sides were identical.

And to think, I was proud when Father won the right to carry the truce banner by arguing that Vieliessar would expect Caerthalien—where she was fostered—to take control of the parley. Now he wondered if Domcariel would be War Prince of Caerthalien by sunset … or if he would be.

Kerothay was a young stallion, temperamental and excitable. It was pure vanity for Lord Bolecthindial to keep a destrier when he no longer rode to war, but today his hot-blooded mount served his purposes well. Caerthalien’s War Prince was cueing Kerothay to fidget and the bay stallion was playing up magnificently—dancing skittishly, twisting his neck to snap at the animals walking at either side. When the truce banner Bolecthindial carried fluttered, Kerothay sprang sideways.

Bolecthindial dropped the banner, as anyone might.

The knights-herald of both sides sounded a warning call. A banner of parley is down.

Kerothay bounded into the stream, apparently out of control. Lord Lengiathion’s mount followed instantly, and a heartbeat later, the other War Princes gave chase. Most of the waiting lords komen knew nothing of the secret plans woven around this parley, but the Heirs, the Swordmasters, and a few others did.

The party on the far bank scattered as the Alliance horses charged them. As they exploded into movement, the shimmering white banner the False Vieliessar carried burst into flame. The knights-herald of the Alliance sounded their horns again. A banner of parley is down. And then: Attack.

The woman who had pretended to be Vieliessar slammed down her visor. In that instant, the glamourie on her and her escort vanished. Their horses were no longer white, nor were they destriers—Runacarendalur recognized the long-legged, deep-chested bodies of animals built for speed and endurance. The twenty-five members of the False Vieliessar’s party turned and galloped for the trees.

Runacarendalur took a scant moment to shout a few words to Helecanth even as he spurred Gwaenor forward. We can catch them—they’ll never reach the trees in time to hide themselves! But before he reached the stream, the sky went from heat-burnished silver to black. Thunder-crack and lighting-flash came almost together and despite himself Runacarendalur flinched, but the enemy Lightborn had called a storm, not a lightning strike. Icy autumn rain sheeted down out of the sky, destroying visibility and making the grass as slippery as ice.

But the komen knew the terrain and destriers were trained to run blind if they must, guided by the hands, knees, and voices of their riders. The charging knights barely slowed as they crossed the stream. The tight column spread until the line of knights extended the full width of the meadow. Around and behind him Runacarendalur could hear shouts of glee—if the War Princes wanted to claim victory without battle, their komen wanted to fight.

He’d seen an opening ahead, and was just about to spur Gwaenor through it, when Runacarendalur heard screams of agony, close enough and loud enough to slice through the thunder of hooves and the hiss of the rain. He couldn’t rein in without being instantly trampled, but he slowed as much as he could, though Gwaenor fought him. There was another flash of lightning—it seemed to make the raindrops hang unmoving in mid-air—and he saw horses down, too many to count.

Trying to jump the downed animals was madness. Anything else was certain death.

With hands and heels he gathered Gwaenor up, and the destrier soared over the obstacles in front of him, then jumped again, quickly, to clear a body in armor lying nearly at his feet. Some of the knights thrown from the saddle were getting up. Others lay motionless, sprawled on the grass. They were tangled, komen and horses both, in uprooted stakes and thin coils of painted rope. Tripwires. They strung tripwires. They knew we’d break the parley truce! Knowing Vieliessar had expected betrayal infuriated him. If she’d known it wasn’t going to be a true parley, why agree to it at all?

The rain was slacking off. He wondered if the enemy thought nobody would be willing to follow them into the trees.

I’ll follow wherever you go. Lead me to Vieliessar and I’ll kill her myself.

Nadalforo and the Lightborn galloped for the trees. It had taken a dozen Mages to cast and hold the glamourie that gave her the seeming of Lord Vieliessar, more to give the horses they rode the seeming of destriers. The bespellings would have been discovered had Isilla Lightsister not Overshadowed the Lightbrother who would have revealed the truth.

The storm started right on time. Strung low ahead were a staggered series of trip-lines—and if their pursuers continued the chase after running into them, the woods were filled with beast-pits that held sharpened stakes at the bottom. And if there were some still foolish enough to pursue after that, there were more traps waiting. There was only one safe way across the meadow and through the woods, and you needed Mage-sight to find it. Nadalforo was no Mage, but the helm she wore was bespelled, and through its eye-slits the markers she needed to see glowed with blue fire.

The moment they burst out of the trees, a hand-picked cadre from her old Stonehorse Free Company rode from cover to join them. First Sword Faranglis was leading Nadalforo’s destrier; she vaulted from the back of the palfrey and flung herself into the destrier’s saddle. Faranglis handed her a sword, which she slipped into the empty scabbard she’d been wearing.

“What news?” he asked.

“Some of them will be right behind us,” she said.

“Torch the forest,” Faranglis said. “Lightborn can make anything burn.”

“Tangisen. Your Keystone Spell is Fire. Do it,” Isilla Lightsister said.

The Lightbrother turned back toward the stand of woods and seemed to simply look at it. Nadalforo was about to tell him it was taking too much time, when every tree in the wood—and every leaf upon the ground, every twig, every bush, every burnable thing—suddenly burst into flame. The wave of heat rolled over them with the force of a blow. The palfreys shifted nervously.

“There were people in there,” Tangisen said quietly.

“And now they’re dead people. Come on,” Nadalforo said.

They crossed Farcarinon’s derelict fields, moving south at a steady, ground-covering pace. The plan called for them to ride until they struck the southern Sanctuary road and then head east. If Prince Gatriadde and Camaibien Lightbrother had managed to escape in the chaos, they’d head for that road as well. If they hadn’t, they’d be with the Alliance army that marched on Mangiralas. They’d escape then and find their way east. Or they’d die.

They’d ridden until the burning woodland was far behind them and the last of the Mage-called storm clouds had drifted away, when Nadalforo saw a flicker of brightness through the trees ahead and reigned in. “We may have trouble,” she said quietly.

A moment later, the enemy came into view. Green surcoats with three gold stars. Caerthalien. Some of the Caerthalien destriers wore caparisons, indicating they and their riders had been part of the honor guard. Most didn’t.

“I make it three hundred horse,” Faranglis said quietly.

“That we can see,” Nadalforo said. “Caerthalien musters twenty times that.”

She glanced at the twenty-four Lightborn with her. Some looked worried. Some looked terrified. All of them had shed every part of their armor they could safely remove while riding, but they were still wearing too much of it to look like anything but knights. “Go there,” she said, pointing toward the right. “If anyone comes near you, surrender at once and say you’re Lightborn. It might save you.”

“I want to fight,” Isilla Lightsister said stubbornly.

“And we don’t have time to teach you just now,” Nadalforo snapped. “So unless you plan to strike them all dead with Magery—go.”

“So we fight?” Faranglis asked, sounding pleased.

“Unless you think asking them very nicely to go away will work,” Nadalforo said. “How shall we do this?”

“Knights like to charge. I say we make them chase us. We’ll get a good idea of how many they are and maybe draw them away from their reinforcements,” Faranglis said.

Nadalforo’s commanders began riding back up the column of the company, passing her orders to the warriors. Nadalforo called up her mental map of Farcarinon. To the right was a stand of trees covering what had once been a manorial estate. The terrain was treacherous for horses, filled with holes, half-buried stones, and jagged bits of wall. It would have to do.

Thank the Hunt Lord Vieliessar sent us to the parley instead of some of her pretty komen. At least we have a chance of getting out alive.…

The Caerthalien knight-herald blew her warhorn. The signal to charge.

“We have superior numbers, my lord,” Helecanth said in satisfaction.

“And we will use them,” Runacarendalur answered.

The parley knights had been joined by a grand-taille of riders in the browned armor of mercenaries. One of the green knights gestured, and the other green-armored knights, along with the Lightborn who had accompanied them, rode to Runacarendalur’s left. None of them had their helms on, and he could see their hair was cropped short. They were all Lightborn. Lightborn wearing armor.

That’s how they tricked us.

“We will accept no surrender,” he said, and Helecanth nodded. They’d need information about Vieliessar’s plans, but they could get it from the Lightborn.

The mercenaries formed ranks, preparing for battle. “Sound the charge,” Runacarendalur said, lowering his visor.

Helecanth raised the warhorn to her lips and sounded the call.

Caerthalien charged.

There was always a few moments between the clarion and the first clash of weapons that renewed Runacarendalur’s joy in battle, his conviction that the Code was a magnificent instrument that evoked all that was great and glorious in the spirits of those who embraced it. The rush of wind over his armor, the thunder of hooves behind him, the speed and power of the animal he rode—all these things conferred a transcendence not even the Lightborn could know. In the moments of the charge, Runacarendalur was one with the komen he led—and not merely with them, but with all who had come before them and all who would follow. It was the closest thing to immortality that any being could possess.

Then his line hit the enemy column.

The encircling maneuver he was attempting fell apart instantly. The rear of the enemy column swung to his right, but not to form an opposing line. They were running for the trees; the head of the column faded back before Runacarendalur’s assault before turning to follow those who had already fled. They meant to make this a chase, but the enemy still had to fight through the deosil side of the Caerthalien line to escape, and Caerthalien did not intend to let them. Wherever either side possessed a momentary advantage of numbers, it used that advantage ruthlessly. It was butcher’s work, with nothing of elegance or honor about it. Runacarendalur withdrew his tuathal wing rather than have it chase the enemy across the field, and sent it galloping along the back of his line. If it reached the trees first, he could keep the enemy from vanishing into them like so many rats down a rat-hole, and terrain elements blocked their retreat to the north and west. If he could keep them on open ground, superior numbers and superior skill would grant Caerthalien the victory.

With enough time.

Nadalforo’s company retreated as planned, but even though it was outnumbered and should have waited for reinforcement, Caerthalien’s deosil line forced the battle and their tuathal line simply vanished. We’re being flanked, Nadalforo thought, but there was nothing she could do about it. They couldn’t run, so they had to fight. She hoped the Lightborn would flee—because if they didn’t, if they were questioned, all of them knew at least something of Lord Vieliessar’s plans.

Her blade rang off the pauldron of the enemy knight before her. She sparred and feinted for a few exchanges to convince her enemy he knew what she’d do, then swung her mount wide and jammed the point of her blade directly into her opponent’s groin. Cuisses only went to the top of the thigh, and faulds to the middle of the belly. The raised pommel of the war saddle and the long chain shirt were supposed to protect the unarmored groin and lower belly. They did their job because komen were more interested in fighting beautifully than in killing their foes.

Nadalforo gave her blade a twist as she withdrew it and saw the blood of a severed artery spray; if her foe screamed, there was too much noise to hear, but he dropped his sword and thrashed. His destrier, taking the shift in position for a command, reared, and the knight fell from the saddle. Nadalforo was already turning to find other prey.

She heard the shrill notes of one of her company’s signal whistles calling: disengage—retreat—go right. It could only be hope, not possibility, for Prince Runacarendalur was out for revenge. He wouldn’t retreat unless his defeat was certain, and that meant she’d have to manage to kill most of his attack force.

When she heard warhorns ring out—the foe is in sight—attack—attack—she knew reinforcements had arrived. The best her meisne could hope for was to die fighting. I’ve never thought the souls of dead warriors go to ride with the Starry Hunt forever, but soon I’ll know.

But when the reinforcements reached the battleground, they weren’t Caerthalien’s. The newly arriving knights wore green surcoats, but the device on them was a silver Unicorn, not three gold stars. Green surcoat fought green surcoat, and the blazon of the silver Unicorn was everywhere.

Once again Nadalforo heard the signal whistles calling for disengagement and retreat, and this time she was able to ride free of the melee.

“I thought we were going to die fighting for free!” Faranglis shouted when she reached him. He was already moving toward the road, brandishing his sword in a signal: close up and follow.

“Not today,” Nadalforo answered. Now it was Caerthalien that was outnumbered, but it would take Lord Vieliessar’s knights time to slay them all, and time was the one thing they didn’t have.

They reached the road. Prince Gatriadde’s russet surcoat stood out among browned mail and green armor. Nadalforo was glad he’d managed to escape; his role in this had been vital and he’d endured danger and sacrifice to carry it out. She gave the order to form up for another attack on Caerthalien—she had no intention of letting Household knights fight Stonehorse’s battles—and as she did, she heard someone sound the call for retreat. She couldn’t tell which side was calling for disengagement.

Suddenly the Caerthalien destriers turned and bolted, running as fast as they could. Any animals without riders fled as well, quickly passing the others. The moment Caerthalien took flight, Lord Vieliessar’s knights galloped toward the road, leaving behind them a field covered with the dead.

The Lightborn had found a way to fight after all.

Nadalforo spurred her destrier toward the relief force’s commander. “Making the enemy’s horses bolt seems like a convenient way to win a battle,” she said when she reached him.

“It only wins the battle,” Thoromarth answered. “It doesn’t win the war.”

“I don’t object to winning a battle,” Nadalforo answered. “Especially since it means I’ll live to see the rest of the war.”

Thoromarth laughed harshly. “I never knew a sellsword to be such an optimist.”

One moment Caerthalien was in the middle of a battle Runacarendalur was convinced they could win. The next moment, Gwaenor—and every other Caerthalien destrier—bolted.

Nothing the prince did slowed Gwaenor’s headlong flight. The stallion was insensible to the command of bit and spur. Runacarendalur concentrated on keeping his seat. If he fell from Gwaenor’s saddle he’d be trampled by the destriers running behind them. Riderless animals galloped past the knights, and it was a small comfort to know the riderless animals would trip any hidden traps or be the ones to break a leg in a hidden burrow. Gwaenor’s neck was covered with foam and bloody foam flew from his jaws. Runacarendalur only hoped the spell set on them was not meant to make the animals run themselves to death.

It had taken them two candlemarks to reach the Sanctuary road. Now they covered the same distance in a fraction of that time. As they neared Aralhathumindrion, the air stank of smoke and roasting meat. They’d seen a column of smoke as they’d left the encampment, but hadn’t known what burned.

Now they saw.

There was nothing left of the forest but charred ground and a few charred stubs of trees. Smoke still curled up from the ash and embers of the woodland. The riderless destriers reached the burned area first and ran straight onward. Ash swirled up in a choking cloud around them, mingling with the smoke. But they swerved to avoid the now-exposed open pits, which made Runacarendalur hope the bespelling had lifted. If the horses were no longer bolting in a blind panic, perhaps they would answer to their riders’ commands.

“Turn them!” he shouted to the rider at his side. He bawled the command over and over, until it was heard and passed back through the ranks. Simply bringing the horses to a stop wouldn’t be enough, even if they could. The others behind would run over them, or past them, and maybe spook them into bolting again.

Gwaenor strained against the rein. Runacarendalur feared he would not be able to make the destrier turn, until from the ranks behind him, a warhorn sounded: wheel deosil—form column—wheel deosil—all knights.

And Gwaenor turned, obedient to a signal he’d had heard every day of his life since foalhood.

By the time they were heading back the way they’d come, Gwaenor had slowed to a canter, then to a trot. Other destriers, still moving at a gallop, passed him, but the whole force had turned in response to the warhorn. At last, the animals were all standing. Winded, blown, exhausted, overheated—but alive.