Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TO FLY BEFORE THE STORM

It is one thing to die for the High King’s cause, a second thing to know you died turning a Flower Forest to dust, and a third thing to know even that wasn’t enough.

—Iardalaith Warhuntsman,

Of the Beginning of War

“We didn’t do it,” Iardalaith said. “I wish we had. But … no.”

The exhausted army moved in sluggish retreat. Vieliessar didn’t know how long this respite would last, but they must use it while they could. A mile to the west, six thousand of the enemy—all wearing Caerthalien colors—sat motionless watching their flight, the only Alliance warriors still on the field. Someone panicked, Vieliessar thought with as much satisfaction as she could summon under the circumstances. She’d gathered her commanders to her and now rode with them on the tuathal side. This might be her only chance to give them orders and hear their reports. Too many who had gone into battle two days before were missing now. Gunedwaen, she hoped, was with some other element of her scattered troops, but she did not know.

“There’s more than one way to set something on fire,” Nadalforo pointed out, answering Iardalaith. “You can use a torch, for example. People do.”

“But why would they set fire to their own pavilions?” Prince Frochoriel asked, sounding dazed.

“They didn’t,” Nadalforo said. “At least, I’m willing to make that wild leap of imagination. The Alliance might not be outnumbered by Lord Vieliessar’s commonfolk, but it’s a near thing. And I’ll prophesy further and say none of those commonfolk wish to be returned to slavery.”

“You seem to be remarkably conversant with the mentality of farmers and Landbond,” Rithdeliel said irritably. His shield arm was bound against his side by pieces of his surcoat; the arm had been broken in the morning’s fighting, and there was neither time nor power to Heal it now.

“Yes,” Nadalforo answered blandly. “Aren’t I?”

“By whatever cause, their camp is burning. But it only buys us a little time,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Even their commanders quarreling among themselves won’t save us. There’s another storm coming. We can’t go on like this.”

“If you have any suggestions, I’ll be more than happy to entertain them,” Rithdeliel answered, exhausted exasperation shading into anger.

You won’t like it. Vieliessar bit back the words. Rithdeliel would like anything that promised a chance of victory. No komen wanted to die in battle as much as they wanted to live to fight the next one, and if Rithdeliel were taken alive, Bolecthindial would make an example of him. Rithdeliel had betrayed his sworn master, and it didn’t matter that Thoromarth had forgiven the treason. Bolecthindial would not.

“They want all of us,” she said, glancing around to include all the commanders with her and, by extension, the army. “But they want me most of all. If I make it look as if I’m abandoning you, they’ll think it’s more important to capture me than to continue fighting you. At least I can draw off enough of their force to give you a better chance.”

“You hope they want to capture you,” Rithdeliel said, without a ghost of irony.

“They do,” Vieliessar said with grim certainty. “You can’t torture a corpse.”

“At last you see reason,” Iardalaith said. “Of course they want to torture you to death. They’ll make a Festival Fair of it.”

Iardalaith’s observation gained him nothing more than a weary smirk from Rithdeliel. “You flee, they follow,” Rithdeliel said. “Well enough. Why don’t they slaughter all of us while they’re at it? It’s hardly as if they don’t have enough komen to do both.”

“They’re fighting among themselves. You know they are,” Vieliessar said. She could not believe the commander whose brilliant tactics had nearly destroyed her would have been such an idiot as to break off the battle when the Alliance was so close to victory just because there was a fire in camp. Inspiration became certainty as she spoke. “When the Alliance retreated, Caerthalien remained on the field. It looks like Caerthalien’s been directing the battle so far. I think their komen will follow me.”

“And that will set the fox among the doves,” Thoromarth said with grim satisfaction. “Who holds you prisoner holds all your lands as well.”

Nadalforo made a noise of pure exasperation. “Arilcarion War-Maker is long dead, fool! You know the rest of the Alliance won’t meekly hand the West to Caerthalien!”

“You know that and so do I,” Thoromarth said equitably. “And I promise you, it won’t stop Aramenthiali from turning on Caerthalien.”

“So if Caerthalien follows Vieliessar, Aramenthiali will follow Caerthalien?” Iardalaith asked, sounding faintly disbelieving.

“Of course,” Atholfol said, sounding surprised he was asking. “If they can fight free of Cirandeiron, of course.”

“Not that it matters,” Rithdeliel said. “They’ll easily overtake us.”

“No,” Iardalaith said, “they won’t. Leave that to the Warhunt.”

“Nor do you accompany us,” Vieliessar said to Rithdeliel. “I ride with Stonehorse and a grand-taille of the Warhunt, no more. It must appear to any who watch that you have abandoned me—or I you—in defeat.”

“Yes,” Rithdeliel said thoughtfully, nodding. “You ride south?”

“Where else, when I flee for my life?” Vieliessar said mockingly. “I shall lead them a merry chase through the southern wilderness, and we shall try the impregnability of Lord Nilkaran’s border towers.”

“Then your army rides north,” Rithdeliel answered decisively. “We’re only a half-day’s ride from Nilkaran’s manorial estates. We’ll loot them as we ride. We should reach the Great Keep no later than tomorrow’s sunset. It should be easy enough to take with Nilkaran’s army elsewhere. I hope you won’t object if, in your absence, we devote ourselves to slaughtering our enemies?”

“I’m having a hard time now remembering why I wanted to keep them alive,” Vieliessar answered sourly. She knew that for all Rithdeliel’s light words, taking Jaeglenhend Great Keep would be no easy task.

“The place may be Dispelled, but it’s still solid enough to invest while we parley for our lives.” Thoromarth sounded almost cheerful. “And if the army besieges us, we have a chance to get our possessions back. I lost a good pair of boots with that supply train.”

“Done,” Vieliessar said. It wasn’t the best possible plan, but it was the best one they could come up with under these circumstances.

“We’re still in sight of Caerthalien,” Nadalforo said. “My lord, I think this will make a better show if you ride forth with only a few knights and let Stonehorse chase after you.”

“Let it be so,” Vieliessar said.

“I go with you, and a grand-taille of the Warhunt,” Iardalaith said. “Be sure we’ll outrun them. This is the Magery we’ve been preparing all this day against the candlemark of your retreat. I shall set it upon us once we are away. Isilla and the rest will do the same for the army.”

“Then let us begin,” Rithdeliel said. “It is Harvest Moon, and I have been longing to see a good Festival play.”

The army came to a slow, swirling stop as the plan was passed in whispers. Prompted by Nadalforo, Vieliessar, Rithdeliel, and several others conducted a shouted argument filled with threats and recriminations: Vieliessar was certain they could be heard on the Western Shore, and surely by the Caerthalien meisne.

Then she spurred poor Firthorn away from the army. Diorthiel of Araphant and a ragged handful of knights followed. There was more shouting behind her. Vieliessar’s shoulder blades itched. One single thunderbolt Called upon them from this cloudless sky and the ruse would be truth. Lords of Night, Lords of War, let this work. Manafaeren Sword-Giver, Aradhwain Bride of Battles, I am the sword in Your hands. Star-Crowned, Silver-Hooved, I beg You for this victory.

Iardalaith and his chosen rode after her, shouting for her to wait.

“You must assume they see everything,” Nadalforo had said, and so Vieliessar made as if to stop and let Diorthiel urge her on, crying to Iardalaith to hurry.

Now a flurry of horns sounded from her army as Rithdeliel and the others called them to order.

“Is it working?” Iardalaith hissed into her ear as he reached her.

“I don’t know,” Vieliessar answered tightly. “Is it?”

“Caerthalien is sending messengers back to camp,” Diorthiel announced, looking off into the distance. “If I were them, I wouldn’t wait for orders.”

“If we don’t wait for Stonehorse to get here, they won’t be within the compass of our spell,” Iardalaith said.

“Just to pass the time—before we face odds of ten to one and die—what spell is this that can save us from being taken?” Diorthiel asked.

“You’ve heard of battle cordial, haven’t you?” Iardalaith said, with a small, exultant smile.

Vieliessar had compounded battle cordial many times in her days at the Sanctuary. It made the fires of the body burn star-bright and star-hot, giving its user fantastic strength and endurance—but its use killed, for if the body burned itself out, even the most skilled Healer could not repair the damage.

Iardalaith could now do with Magery what Vieliessar only knew how to do with herbs.

“If there is such a spell, I should know it,” she said, piqued. It was a ridiculous thing to be annoyed at, under the circumstances, but … every new spell, every variation on an established spell, was brought to the Sanctuary to be taught to the Postulants, for there was no other way to transmit the knowledge of the spells than by passing them from Lightborn to Lightborn.

“If you lived on the Western Shore, you would know how needful such a spell is,” Iardalaith said. “We had no wish to bring knowledge of Quicken to the Sanctuary only to have it declared Forbidden.”

Vieliessar nodded. “Forbidden” spells could not be taught, and an untaught spell would be lost within a generation.

“I hate to interrupt this collegium,” Nadalforo said sourly, as her destrier pulled abreast of them, “but Caerthalien is moving off its mark.”

“Now,” Iardalaith said, raising his hand.

Vieliessar felt the warm wind of the spell pass over her as if her body were bare of armor. Beneath her, she felt Firthorn’s muscles quiver with new vitality.

False vitality.

Their mounts would run themselves to death.

They had no choice.

She dug her spurs into his flanks and Firthorn leapt forward.

“You are fools,” Runacarendalur said, his voice flat with anger. “I had them. I had them. Are you mewling infants to panic at a few scattered coals? Your idiocy has cost us the day.”

“Leash your hound, Caerthalien, or I will do it for you,” Manderechiel Aramenthiali said, waving a languid hand. “I do not explain my decisions to children.”

Runacarendalur drew breath to reply. Then Bolecthindial cleared his throat, and, acknowledging his father’s command, Runacarendalur flung himself into the nearest empty chair instead. He’d told them the commons who’d flocked to Vieliessar’s banner were devious and untrustworthy. Why should anyone expect anything other than more treachery and rebellion once they were captured? But his words had been ignored. And so they have set fire to half the tents in camp! They were small fires, easily put out. It did not require the whole of the army to do it, he thought sullenly.

“You must not be so harsh, my lord husband,” Ladyholder Dormorothon of Aramenthiali said, her tone and her words perfectly calculated to incite Lord Manderechiel further. “I am certain the young prince means well. He is only concerned, as a good son must be, over the welfare of his domain. How will Caerthalien prosper without workers to till the soil?”

“And that touches upon a matter that concerns all of us,” Ivaloriel Telthorelandor said. “We had resigned ourselves to a winter campaign, but that was before we had the good fortune to reclaim so much of our stolen property. The passes have not yet closed. It would be sensible to send the Landbonds back into the West. It will save us the burden of feeding them.”

“Sensible?” Runacarendalur demanded in disbelief. “They are in rebellion! Do you think they will just tamely return to their hovels and behave themselves?”

“But their cause is lost, Prince Runacar,” Ladyholder Edheleorn of Telthorelandor said mildly. “They will have no choice.”

“And of course we must send people with them to make certain they settle into their accustomed ways,” Lord Ivaloriel added. “We would need to do so in any event, for they must have escort through the Dragon’s Gate.”

“Ah, here it comes,” Lord Bolecthindial said bitterly. “Just who—my lord of Telthorelandor—is to look after these spoils of war? And where are they to be resettled? Do we draw lots for them?”

“Obviously they must be returned to the lands they came from,” Lord Clacheu of Denegathaiel said.

“There speaks the weasel in the buttery!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel cried with deadly sarcasm. “Next you will say that Denegathaiel has suffered the greatest losses and should receive the greatest portion!”

“And why not?” Lord Clacheu demanded. “Or are we next to hear that since Caerthalien now holds all of Brabamant’s lands, she should receive Brabamant’s chattels as well? Perhaps you would like to add Ivrithir and Oronviel to that tally? Laeldor? Araphant? Perhaps all we have taken rightfully belongs to Caerthalien?”

It was as if someone had dropped a torch in a pan of hot oil, Runacarendalur thought uncharitably. In the space of an indrawn breath, everyone in the pavilion was shouting, demanding the spoils of war be distributed immediately—and in their favor.

Fools. They believe that a single victory gives them the whole of the war. Heartsick and furious, Runacarendalur rose to his feet and walked out into the camp.

“I see your moderate words and wise counsel did not have the effect you hoped,” Ivrulion said, stepping from the door of his own pavilion as Runacar began to pass it by.

Runacarendalur paused and regarded his brother in something like despair. Gimragiel dead in Ullilion, Thorogalas dead on the Meadows of Aralhathumindrion, Domcariel dead in Mangiralas, and I will not survive Vieliessar’s execution. Is Caerthalien to be held by Ciliphirilir after Lord Bolecthindial’s death? She would surrender it for a box of sweetmeats and a new jeweled comb! If only ’Rulion were not Lightborn.…

But if Ivrulion had not been Called, Runacarendalur would never have been born.

“What did you expect?” he demanded savagely. “We have barely held this alliance together as it is! It’s a sad day when it is victory that destroys us and not defeat!”

His brother merely shook his head. “It is but a few candlemarks until the next storm strikes. They have no food, shelter, or supplies—what can they do but die?”

“She will find something!” Runacarendalur snarled. “I know not what, but she always does! She—”

“Come,” Ivrulion said, “take a cup of wine with me.” He took Runacarendalur’s arm and compelled him into his pavilion.

The interior was dim, lit only by the afternoon sun shining through the green silk. Runcarendalur followed his brother through the second curtain and into an inner chamber, then dropped gratefully into a chair, holding out his hand for the cup of warmed and sweetened wine Ivrulion’s servant brought to him.

“You always did have a terrible temper when you weren’t winning,” Ivrulion commented, accepting his own cup and seating himself close by. “Go and kill some of the prisoners if it will make you feel better. We’ve won. You know we have. We won the moment you took her supply train. Once Vieliessar is dead, we will declare her followers wolfsheads and leave the Less Houses here to hunt them at their leisure.”

“You make it sound simple,” Runacarendalur muttered.

“I don’t know why you insist on it being difficult,” Ivrulion answered. “Your tactics worked. She’s finished.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your Wardings,” Runacarendalur said, his mood slowly beginning to lighten.

“And for that we have our enemy to thank,” Ivrulion answered. “If she had not taken her Lightborn onto the battlefield, I doubt I could have persuaded the War Princes to permit me to give orders to their Lightborn.”

Runacarendalur tossed back the rest of his wine and held out his cup for more. He frowned. “In just a handful of moonturns she’s turned the West into ghostlands. Do you suppose, ’Rulion, that she’s been what this so-called Prophecy was warning us about all along?”

Ivrulion chuckled softly. “We shall make a scholar of you yet, Rune. If it is not true, we shall certainly say it is.” He paused for a moment in thought. “Almost I could wish to take her alive. To know how she—”

“You cannot go in there!” From beyond the outer curtain, Runacarendalur heard the voice of Mardioruin Lightbrother, his brother’s personal Lightborn.

“I can and I will—if Prince Runacarendalur is there! My lord prince! Are you here?” Helecanth shouted.

Runacarendalur flung his cup to the carpet and sprang to his feet just as Helecanth pushed through the curtain. Her face was bruised from the recent fighting; her eyes sparkled with urgency. Behind her was Lengiathion Warlord.

Runacarendalur had left Lengiathion in charge of the Caerthalien knights on the field.

“What—” he said, but Lengiathion didn’t wait for him to ask.

“Lord Vieliessar has quarreled with her army. She flees south with a few hundred Lightborn and mercenaries. Her army—”

But Runacarendalur was no longer listening. “My armor!” he shouted. “Get me my armor!”

The chill soft wind whipped across Vieliessar’s face as Firthorn galloped, as fresh as if he had come scant moments before from the horselines. Behind her thundered her tiny army. Were they tempting enough to lure the hawk from the falconer’s glove? She must hope. If they were— If Rithdeliel could flee unopposed— If he could take Jaeglenhend Great Keep—

“Ah, here they come!” Nadalforo cried, raising her voice so Vieliessar could hear.

Vieliessar risked a look back. Caerthalien’s knights galloped in pursuit. They outnumbered Vieliessar’s meisne as much as ten to one, but her people had several miles head start. There was little chance they’d be overtaken. Jaeglenhend’s border was a half-day’s ride from where they’d been fighting, but they would probably reach it before sunset.

The day darkened as the afternoon storm clouds swept over the Mystrals. And for once in recent days, something went as she hoped. She heard the distant clarion of warhorns as more knights rode from the Alliance encampment to join the chase—not because more of them were needed to capture her, but because none of the War Princes wished her to fall prisoner to any other. If I were willing to give up my life to do it, I could destroy the entire Alliance army right here, she thought gaily.

But she must survive. And so she must find another way.

Mile after mile fell away beneath the destriers’ tireless hooves. Their pursuers turned back, for the storm their Lightborn had conjured to finish destroying Vieliessar’s army had fallen upon them instead. Vieliessar and her escort simply outran it. Her body ached with the battering of sitting to the gallop for so long; she knew the others must be weary as well. Her mouth was dry and her throat ached with thirst; it had been two days—more—since she’d eaten anything or drunk more than a little melted snow.

Dusk deepened and the horses ran on, exhausted yet tireless.

“There!”

Nadalforo’s shout drew Vieliessar’s attention. So far eastward its shape was hidden in the tree line stood one of the border towers. She nodded, signifying she had heard, and the whole column began to turn in that direction. With luck, the tower stood deserted.

But Vieliessar’s luck seemed to have fled with the day. Nilkaran might have drawn heavily from the border keeps but he hadn’t stripped them entirely. They were within a mile of the tower when its main gate opened and six tailles of knights rode toward her, each carrying a torch. Vieliessar’s meisne outnumbered them, but Nilkaran’s people and their mounts were fresh.

Vieliessar drew her sword and shouted her battle cry. Then there was no more time for thought. The enemy flung their torches to the ground, making a circle of fire in which to fight, and battle was joined.

In its first moments, Vieliessar lost nearly a dozen people. Their bespelled destriers might have been able to run for another candlemark, even two, but they were unable to follow the complex orders that turned a destrier from a method of transport into a companion in battle. Some tried and fell helpless to the ground, their limbs thrashing spasmodically. Some refused, leaving their riders vulnerable to attack. Some simply swung wide of the Jaeglenhend knights and kept running. She herself might have been dead in the first seconds of the battle had she not seized control of Firthorn’s mind. She could feel his pain and terror, his utter exhaustion, and it broke her heart to do what she must, but the stakes were too high. Ruthlessly, she crushed the spark of his will beneath her Magery. She felt him dying by heartbeats as she forced him into battle against the commander of the opposing knights. Firthorn wheeled and spun, snapped and kicked, and at last she drove her blade into her enemy’s body.

In the same moment she kicked her feet free of Firthorn’s stirrups and seized the pommel of her enemy’s saddle, thrusting him from his seat as she flung herself from the back of the dying animal to the back of the living one. Around her, others were doing the same.

The field of battle brightened as the Warhunt conjured globes of Silverlight to illuminate it. In the brief instant’s respite before she closed with another foe, Vieliessar saw that most of the Warhunt were on foot, having abandoned their palfreys. She knew they were as exhausted as she—and as cold and starved—and far less used to the rigors of battle. But Iardalaith had chosen his Warhunt Mages well: after a few moments to gather their resources, the Warhunt turned its attention to the enemy. Their destriers froze in place or fled the battlefield to buck their riders from their backs and trample them to death. The enemy knights shouted with spell-fed terror, or flung their swords from them as if they’d become venomous serpents, or simply flung themselves out of their saddles.

The rest of the battle was brief.

Vieliessar ran her hand down her new mount’s sweating trembling neck. Vital as her victory had been, it left the taste of ashes in her mouth. There was nothing of fairness or even kindness to it. She’d never been indoctrinated in the Way of the Sword, but to win as she had just done seemed very wrong, as if she’d stolen from someone who trusted her.

And that made no sense: these komen did not trust her, and no War Prince would surrender an advantage that would give their House victory over another. The High King must do more, she thought with weary exasperation.

“Give them the chance to surrender!” she shouted, as she saw one of the former mercenaries stand upon the chest of an enemy, preparing to put a sword-blade through the eye-slits of the fallen foe’s helm. “If you do not, you will answer to me!”

“What ransom will you set, my lord?” Nadalforo rode toward her, her stolen destrier dancing fretfully beneath an unfamiliar rider. Her mouth was set in a hard line of disapproval.

“Fealty. As always,” Vieliessar answered steadily.

“We still have to take the tower,” Nadalforo reminded her.

“You may kill all who will not swear,” Vieliessar said, turning away.

The Warhunt moved across the battlefield, finishing the dying destriers and helping the wounded fighters. At Nadalforo’s command, the enemy knights who surrendered were disarmed and gathered together, to be guarded by her warriors until Vieliessar could take their fealty oaths. The rest were being executed without ceremony.

Vieliessar glanced toward the tower. The upper windows were lit. Servants still inside. Probably the tower’s commander. They were out of bowshot here unless someone in there had a forester’s bow. She sighed with weariness. If the tower’s defenders would not surrender willingly, the Warhunt could force them out. And any of the tower’s defenders would know its second entrance. Even if that were barred, they could destroy the door and it would be easy enough to repair.

But moments later, when she called upon him to surrender, Lord Karamedheliel gave up Oakstone Tower without further battle.

To become a Warlord—as he had not once, but twice—one studied every aspect of war. A war was a living thing, like a beast, a tree, a child. In Farcarinon, Rithdeliel had owned a library of scrolls that spoke of war—not just the reality of it, but the theory, for the battles the War Princes fought were mere squabbles, as if a child went from babe to toddler over and over, and never became adult. To see the full scope of war, one must turn to xaique. A pretense of war, fought because there were no true wars to study.

As the middle game of xaique involved defeat and loss, so did the middle game of war.

To retreat across the Mystrals with her army and all the folk who looked to her had been an audacious move, for it cut Vieliessar’s enemy off from its supply lines. Rithdeliel would have welcomed a continuance of the string of victories with which her campaign began, but he knew, as Vieliessar did, that many of those triumphs had been built upon the stones of Vieliessar’s boldness and the High Houses’ inability to see her as a threat. Now they saw, and that advantage was gone. She had frightened her enemy badly enough that its alliance of War Princes was desperate enough to take counsel from one not yet of their rank. One as audacious as Vieliessar, and as brilliant.

That had cost her, and dearly, but one defeat was not the end of the war. Their supply train was captured, but it was intact, and what was stolen once might be stolen twice. Their army was scattered and suffering, but it, too, might well be intact. And if it was not …

Lord Serenthon had fought the High Houses nearly to a stand against odds of a hundred to one. The daughter surpassed the father as the ice-tiger in her glory surpassed the kitten on the hearth. So long as Vieliessar High King lived there was a chance of victory.

It was Rithdeliel’s duty to save her army so she could claim it.

It was day when they began their northward march. It was dusk when they reached the first of the manor farms. The destriers grazed their way through the last of the standing grain, reducing the snow-covered fields to stubble and muck. Both horses and riders were agonizingly thirsty, but the riders kept their mounts from taking more than a few mouthfuls of water at the stream. If the beasts foundered, it was as much a loss as if they died. There were miles yet to go.

To all the Jaeglenhend commonfolk who approached the army and begged to be allowed to travel with and serve the High King and her army, Rithdeliel made certain the same word was given: the army rode to take Jaeglenhend Great Keep, and all who wished to serve the High King were welcome.

They will know we are coming, Rithdeliel thought to himself. But who will know? Who has Nilkaran left to defend his keep—and who remained after Iardalaith Lightbrother brought the Warhunt here?

“They’ll devour everything we’ve stolen down to dry bones,” Thoromarth said.

“They’ll steal the countryside bare as well,” Rithdeliel replied. “Drive our stolen livestock, incite their kin to flight and mutiny, and give us warning of any foe.”

“Ah, well, that’s all right,” Thoromarth said with a grunt. “For a moment I was worried you hadn’t thought this through.”

Rithdeliel used the halt to pass orders among the commanders. Many of his orders were not orders, precisely: the army’s warriors were commanded by nearly two tailles of War Princes, and most of them were here. But he could suggest, and he was the High King’s Warlord. And so, when they rode on, the army scattered, becoming a broad and rambling line of forage barely less destructive than a raging fire. The commonfolk followed, driving the living wealth of the manor farms before them: horses, cattle, sheep, goats. With dawn, the army left the last farm behind and gathered itself together again. Half a day’s ride in the distance, silhouetted against the grey morning sky, stood the towers of Jaeglenhend Great Keep.

At noon they were seen by the tower watch—which told Rithdeliel the tower watch was not as he would have had it—and there was a distant thunder of drums and baying of horns. Two marks past noon, the battered, weary, and truncated army of Vieliessar High King arrived at Jaeglenhend Great Keep on their exhausted and footsore destriers. They had no bright banners. Their armor was filthy and their surcoats were ragged, and more than half their number still bore some unhealed injury.

None of that mattered. What mattered was that they stood before the gates of Jaeglenhend Great Keep and their knights-herald put their warhorns to their lips and called to Jaeglenhend’s defenders to come and die. The sound of the horns died away into silence, and then the silence lengthened. When it began to seem that they would all simply go on staring at each other forever, Rithdeliel growled and pulled his helm free of its armored collar.

“Do you intend to surrender or not?” he shouted up to the battlements. They were crowded with folk—and if Jaeglenhend had archers upon the walls, its attackers had Lightborn standing ready to cast Shield at the first sight of an arrow in flight. “Don’t make me wait all day!”

There was a whispered conversation that he could not make out because of the distance, then some shifting and scuffling. At last a young woman—a girl, really, if she’d flown her kite in the Flower Moon Festival more than two years hence, it would be a wonder—pushed forward.

“Why should we not wait?” she called. “We are here and you are there! And my father will come back and kill you all!”

Rithdeliel turned to the Lightsister beside him. “Is there anyone here who has gone as envoy to Jaeglenhend? Who is she?”

“I will ask,” she said, and slipped from her saddle to move on foot through the motionless ranks.

“Indeed we are here,” Rithdeliel answered with an assumption of cheer. “And here we remain. Your orchards will feed us well—and give us excellent firewood to roast your sheep and cattle!”

The girl on the battlements opened her mouth to respond, but the man standing beside her—he had the look of someone who’d been Captain of Guards since before Nilkaran’s greatsire was whelped—leaned toward her and began speaking urgently in her ear, sending dark looks in Rithdeliel’s direction.

“She is Princess Telucalmo of Jaeglenhend,” a breathless voice announced at Rithdeliel’s knee. He glanced down; the Lightsister had returned, bringing another Lightborn with her. “I am Taraulard Lightbrother. I was born here.”

“Did you serve at court?” Rithdeliel asked quickly, for the Green Robes saw everything. But the Lightbrother shook his head.

“My lord held a manor in the Tamabeth Hills. He—I—and his household rode to join the High King last spring.”

“Is she Nilkaran’s heir? How old is she?” Rithdeliel demanded.

“No. His heir is Heir-Prince Surieniel. He is six. Princess Telucalmo is ten years older,” Taraulard Lightbrother said quickly. “She is betrothed into Vondaimieriel. She was to have gone to them this Harvest.”

That explained why Princess Telucalmo was here instead of serving as Nilkaran’s squire, or riding in his taille. Finfemeras would consider it a personal insult if Nilkaran got the bride of one of his sons slaughtered before the wedding. And because Nilkaran had ridden out thinking it would be a simple matter of ordering the High King to leave his lands, the highest-ranking lord within his great keep was a prince too young to leave the nursery and the lord who commanded it was a princess who had never fought a battle.

“Princess Telucalmo!” Rithdeliel called up to the battlements. “Come forward! Unless you are too frightened to face me!”

The taunt worked. He’d been certain it would. She pulled away from the man beside her and leaned over the battlements so far he thought she might fall.

“I’m not afraid of anything!” she shouted. “My father—”

“Isn’t coming,” Rithdeliel answered, and a great noise rose as everyone began talking at once. He waited for it to stop, then said, “He is with the army that came from the west. We are here. How many days’ provisioning have you there in the castel, Princess of Jaeglenhend?”

Princess Telucalmo didn’t answer him. Rithdeliel didn’t think she knew. It would have been amazing if she had. He knew such things because it was a Warlord’s business to know them. Harvesttide—the end of War Season—was the time when larders were barest. And the castellan had to know that most of their spell-preserved stores were rotting, though Rithdeliel didn’t know if the Court did.

The question was asked for show, and it did its work. Soon enough the battlements were cleared of spectators and only the castel guards were left. “I do not recognize your livery,” one of them called down. “Is that what bandits and oathbreakers wear in the west?”

“Perhaps you can tell me that—if you make it across the Mystrals alive!” Rithdeliel called back. “I will take your surrender, but only if it is made without a fight.”

“As the princess says—we are in here!” the guardsman answered, grinning.

Half of any battle was waiting. Rithdeliel had never much cared for it. He sent most of the army back to the village. The craftworkers had left their livestock behind, and the herds driven up from the manorial estates had followed close behind the army. Soon the savory scent of roasting meat filled the air. Someone brought him a piece of meat wrapped in a piece of bread, and water for his destrier. Someone on the wall—he couldn’t see who—loosed a few arrows. They struck nothingness and fell harmlessly to earth.

It was late afternoon, and the shadows were stretching long, when Rithdeliel finally saw and heard what he’d been waiting for: galloping horses and the flash of armor, the drumming of hooves. The group must have fled through a siege gate on the far side of the castel. He spurred Varagil toward them, and the double-taille he’d kept mounted and waiting through the long afternoon followed, but the Warhunt was quicker still. Rithdeliel and his meisne had barely rounded the near wall of the castel before two of the horses in the party broke away, turned, and began galloping toward Rithdeliel’s forces. One palfrey carried a slender figure in blue-lacquered armor; the next, a woman carrying a small child before her on her saddle. A third figure followed almost at once—the guardsman Rithdeliel had seen speaking to Princess Telucalmo on the battlements.

The rest of the riders could have escaped, but they were guardsmen, leaving the Great Keep in an attempt to get the princess and the Heir-Prince to safety. After a moment’s confusion they came galloping toward Rithdeliel and his meisne.

Rithdeliel plucked Heir-Prince Surieniel from his nurse’s arms and flung the startled child to the nearest of his komen. Surieniel screamed as he was carried away and Rithdeliel closed with Princess Telucalmo.

If she’d been riding a destrier, if she’d been a seasoned knight, it wouldn’t have been nearly so easy, but she was still hammering her heels into her palfrey’s sides and sawing at the reins, unable to understand why it would not obey her. She saw the danger too late: he dragged her from her saddle and the Warhunt released her palfrey. With no rider to control it, the beast sped away.

Rithdeliel passed Princess Telucalmo to one of his komen despite her shrieks and struggles. As the knight galloped away, Rithdeliel drew his sword and spurred Varagil into the castel guardsmen. They should have retreated as soon as they saw their cause was lost, but every disaster the High King had faced in Jaeglenhend had originated in Nilkaran’s lords being more terrified of him than they were of death. Outnumbered more than ten to one, palfreys and chain mail against destriers and plate armor, Jaeglenhend’s guardsmen fought to the death.

After the battles, the flight, the privation of the past days, the surrender of Jaeglenhend Great Keep was almost anticlimactic, but here at last Nilkaran had done their work for them. The castel’s servants and remaining defenders all knew that having lost the Heir-Prince to the enemy meant their deaths. Opening the castel gates was their only chance for life, so they took it.

The keep was not large enough to house even the portion of Vieliessar’s army which had taken it, and its larders were in as much disarray as Rithdeliel had suspected. But it offered shelter, and the surrounding farms had given them supplies, and there was no harm in being crowded if one was warm and fed. He set the craftworkers of the village to replacing the army’s lost supplies, and the commons who had followed them from the manor farms to building an earthworks that encompassed the nearer fields and the castel itself. He did not expect it to provide a great deal of defense, but it would break a charge, and it would keep them busy.

Then he set about gathering the army back together.

Lord Vieliessar’s army.

The High King’s army.

The Alliance army prepared for march three full candlemarks before dawn. Its enemy’s baggage train followed behind its own, and the mingled herds followed both. Vieliessar’s Lightborn, in disgrace for their rebellion, were set to ride between her supply train and the herds, where the komen who guarded the herdsmen could guard them as well.

It was still snowing.

The Houses of the Alliance took turns supplying the rear guard, and today House Rolumienion had that dubious honor. Since the end of the disastrous Surrender Parley Theodifel of Rolumienion had heard nothing but talk of the High Houses banding together and their lords cherishing each other as kin. And he had never been so grateful to be the eldest child of a minor lord, for the Lords Komen and their princely masters had done nothing but feud among themselves, and it had been a rare day, even on the march, when a Challenge Circle was not drawn.

When the herd beasts stampeded—first the goats, then the sheep, then even the cattle and the palfreys—there were many signs made against sorcery, for the herders suspected the rebel Lightborn had been responsible. Theodifel galloped up to the Lightborn and rode beside them. But he could not tell if any of them were working Magery, so he summoned his komen and went to give aid to the herders, for the loss of the herds was the loss of food, remounts, and draft animals.

It was noon before the herd beasts were finally collected and calmed and willing to be driven quietly at the rear of the caravan once more. On his return to the tail of the caravan, Komen Theodifel saw at once that the Lightborn were no longer there, but his first thought was that they’d taken advantage of the confusion to ride ahead, for who would follow a baggage train if they did not have to? A moment’s reflection told him such an easy answer was folly: the loyal Lightborn would not permit the rebels to join them, and if they were simply riding beside the wagons farther up the column …

… the hoofprints of their palfreys should be visible in the snow. And they were not.

They were gone.

Heir-Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien was an excellent knight, a skilled general, a loyal vassal, and a reasonably dutiful son. He was kind to the servants of his household, courteous to his vassal knights, and gracious to the nobility of his father’s court. He held his temper when he would rather lose it, he was tactful when he would rather be honest, and he told the truth when he would prefer to lie. He did not mistreat beast or child, he did not create factions, or join them, or permit them to form about him, and he did not—usually—drive Lord Bolecthindial to threaten to lay him in chains and throw him in the nearest dungeon.

“Will you ask Lord Nilkaran to grant you the loan of Jaeglenhend, Father? For if you mean the dungeons of Caerthalien, they—”

“Be silent!” Lord Bolecthindial roared. “I will not be mocked by my heir!”

They stood facing one another, scant handbreadths between them, in Lord Bolecthindial’s pavilion. Lord Bolecthindial’s servants, attendants, and guards had all been dismissed, and the door-flaps were laced shut. Their conversation was utterly private.

Fortunately.

“No—you let Prince Serenthon’s heir do that!” Runacarendalur shouted back.

Bolecthindial struck him with a closed fist. Runacarendalur staggered back, falling to one knee. Blood dripped from his mouth and soaked into the pattern of leaves and flowers in the thick carpet. He stayed down, digging his fingertips into the carpet’s pile. It was better to concentrate on the pain than to think of rising up and choking the life from his father.

Of course, his father was armed and he wasn’t. So if he did what he so longed to do, he might solve the problems of everyone in camp at a single blow. Not that they’d have any way of knowing it.

Three days ago they’d been on the verge of unconditional victory. Two days ago Runacarendalur had been stopped from delivering the decisive blow to Vieliessar, her army, and her mad ambitions when the Council of War Princes who ruled over the army—a council! was there a madder notion between Sword and Star?—had forced him to break off the fighting because the prisoners had set fire to the encampment. Today the Lightborn who’d sworn fealty to Vieliessar had vanished as if they’d dissolved into mist. Because of that, the army had covered so little distance they might as well not have struck the camp at all—and even that didn’t matter, because that self-same do-nothing Council could not decide whether to pursue Vieliessar or her army, and so pursued neither.

At last he ran his tongue over his split lip and pushed himself to his feet. “Tell me you’ll listen. Or I’ll go to Manderechiel and see if Aramenthiali will.”

“He will feed your liver to his dogs,” Lord Bolecthindial said, his words falling like slow and measured blows.

“Perhaps,” Runacarendalur said evenly. “Or perhaps he’ll pay heed. Aramenthiali is used to groveling. I’m sure Manderechiel isn’t nearly as annoyed to be here as you are.”

Lord Bolecthindial turned away and walked to a chair. He sat heavily, as if the need to sit were another enemy he wished to slay. Runacarendalur did not follow.

“My son. You are young yet. You do not understand what a labyrinth of promises and lies rulership is.” Bolecthindial was most unsettling when he attempted to be conciliatory. He did not do it well. “Caerthalien’s future hangs by the most fragile of threads. It is no secret.”

Because three of my brothers are dead and the fourth is Lightborn and I shall be dead before the springtide and who is left? Ivrulion could be Regent for Demi-Princess Mindolin, but she is a child, and the daughter of an elder son at that—and both her aunts must take the throne before her. And they are idiots, but neither is such an idiot as not to see that becoming War Prince would allow them to send Mother from the keep so they need not suffer her interference—and she is a serpent, but she’s smart.

“Oh, I see your plan at last!” Runacarendalur announced as if struck by sudden inspiration. “You have a bride in mind for me, and we will all sit here until she has presented me with an heir. An interesting strategy, but do you think the rest of the Alliance will endorse it?”

“Yap on,” Bolecthindial answered crushingly. “I am used to barking dogs.”

“Very well. Since you invite me to, I shall. Every moment we waste—and we have wasted three interminable days already—is another moment in which Vieliessar can hide herself and her army can regroup to attack us again. Rithdeliel Warlord rode north—do you think he won’t take Jaeglenhend Great Keep when he reaches it?”

“I think we have his supplies, and his servants, and his remounts, and half his army will be dead long before they see the walls of the keep,” Bolecthindial said. “Another sennight, and we’ll have every komen who can still sit a horse at the bounds of our encampment, begging for pardon. As for the keep—all it need do is shut its gates and wait.”

Runacarendalur drew a deep breath to keep himself from shouting. Again. They’d seen Vieliessar claim two dozen Less Houses in one War Season. The commons had risen up for her. The Lightborn had abandoned their homes. War Princes had willingly relinquished their domains to her. If the surviving Houses of the West had not banded together—If they had not moved to follow her with incredible speed—If Runacarendalur had not turned her own tactics against her to take her supply train …

… this so-called Alliance would be fighting for its life right now.

He was certain of it. What he was not certain of was that they’d seen Vieliessar fleeing from an army that had turned against her. If that were truly the case, why hadn’t its commanders tried to seek pardon? They’d had Lightborn with them. They could have sent envoys.

“And if you’re right, what then?” Runacarendalur said wearily. “True, we said we’d execute everyone who pledged to her. And true, perhaps they don’t believe it. But the War Princes? When we took Vieliessar’s baggage train we executed their entire households, and the Lightborn will bear them word of that—or do you, perhaps, think they have simply ridden off to the lost city of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor? The War Princes won’t sue for pardon, and thanks to us, they have no lands to return to. What they do have is tailles, and grand-tailles, and entire meisnes that are still loyal to them.

“Did you think we had trouble with outlaws after the Scouring of Farcarinon? This will be a thousand times worse.” He walked over to the table beside his father’s chair and picked up a cup from the tray. Without asking permission, he poured it full of wine from the pitcher there and walked away again.

Lord Bolecthindial waved Runacarendalur’s comments away irritably. “I never thought you such an idealist. A War Prince without lands is just another landless knight. They can’t hold the loyalty of nobles they can’t reward—you’ll find that’s true when you come to rule. Their komen will desert them, if they haven’t already, and come begging for the scraps from our tables. We have their commons. We have their supplies. We have the Mangiralas bloodstock. We can declare them outlaw and let the Uradabhur deal with a pack of outlaws.”

“And that might work,” Runacarendalur said. I don’t think it will, but it might. “If we have Vieliessar too. They followed her because she claimed to be Amrethion High King’s anointed heir. Oh, and because she promised to free the Landbonds and kill all of us, but the important point is, her army will become a pack of landless outlaws without her. But while she’s alive—or they think she is—they’ll fight.” He drained his cup.

“They’ve already deserted her,” Bolecthindial said.

“They haven’t,” Runacarendalur countered. “If her cause were lost, her Lightborn wouldn’t have fled. Why should they? Of all who’ve defied us, they don’t need to fear punishment. But think whatever you like. I won’t convince you, and for the loyalty I bear Caerthalien I won’t try to convince anyone else—if you let me go after her.”

Bolecthindial got to his feet. “Think carefully, before I forget you are my heir and remember you are my vassal.” Bolecthindial’s voice was so quiet that it took as much courage as Runacarendalur had ever mustered to meet his eyes calmly. Bolecthindial in a shouting rage could be dealt with. Bolecthindial soft-voiced and unmoving was unpredictable and deadly.

“Lengiathion Warlord, Elrinonion Swordmaster, Lord Mordrogen—I could name a score of your vassals who would speak hard words to you for Caerthalien’s safety,” Runacarendalur said steadily. “While Vieliessar is free she is a danger. For who she is. For who the people will believe she is. For what their belief will make them do. If you will not hear these words from your son, Lord Bolecthindial, hear them from your vassal—” Runacarendalur crossed the space between them in three swift strides and knelt before his father, head bowed “—and ask yourself: would Serenthon Farcarinon have balked at a ruse upon the battlefield if it would gain him time to rally his komen?”

There was nothing but silence for long moments, but Runacarendalur did not dare raise his head. He had risked all on this last throw of the dice. If his father would not listen, he would have to seek out those who would. After that, he could never return to Caerthalien while his father lived.

It does not matter, he reminded himself. I shall never rule Caerthalien. My only gift to her next prince can be the death of that monster who wishes to destroy everything that is fine and noble in the Fortunate Lands.

Perhaps Vieliessar was right about the meaning of The Song of Amrethion. Perhaps some great doom was coming. He didn’t know. What he knew was that if it did come, it couldn’t be fought by Landbonds with reaping hooks. And the war against it couldn’t be led by anyone who thought it could.

“I do not say you are right,” Bolecthindial said at last, “but a small force set to hunt Lord Vieliessar down is no bad notion. Her execution will serve as a suitable display of strength to the remnants of her army, when we come upon them.” He rested his hand on the crown of Runacarendalur’s head for a moment, then withdrew it. “But come! Get up! It is unseemly for one born to rule to grovel at my feet as if he were—As if he were of Aramenthiali lineage!” Bolecthindial gave a short, sharp bark of mirth at his own joke. “And summon the servants! You’ve drunk all the wine.”

The matter wasn’t settled so simply, of course. If Bolecthindial set a search party hunting Vieliessar without the consent of the other War Princes, he’d be violating the protocols under which they’d all come to war, and even Caerthalien could not stand against the power of the rest of the Alliance. The great cloth-of-gold pavilion in which the War Princes dined each evening was occupied long into the night as they argued; Runacarendalur occupied himself by deciding who he’d take with him if he were allowed to go at all.

His own guard, of course: Helecanth and his Twelve. Five more tailles beyond that, as he’d need to deal with any fighters Vieliessar had with her. His brother Ivrulion and as many more Lightborn as Bolecthindial would let him have—twenty would be good, forty would be better—to manage her Magery and the Lightborn with her. Supplies and servants. And once he had the bitch in chains, he’d tell Ivrulion the truth about being Bonded to her. He’d have to. Runacarendalur would need someone to help make sure his death when Vieliessar was executed did as little harm to Caerthalien as possible.

Every time Runacarendalur thought about being Bondmate to Vieliessar Farcarinon (Oronviel no longer existed; let the rebel be ruined under the name she’d been born to) he became so furious he could barely see. To have had his fate involuntarily linked to hers was cruelly wrong.

When dawn outshone the glow of the Silverlight, Runacarendalur still did not know what decision had been reached. The War Council had ended its deliberations some candlemarks before, but Bolecthindial had not seen fit to inform him of their decision and Runacarendalur knew better than to try his father’s temper by sending a servant to ask.

He was preparing to don his armor for the day when one of his father’s servants arrived, summoning him to Lord Bolecthindial’s pavilion. Runacarendalur hastily flung on an overrobe and camp boots and hurried to the meeting. It was still a candlemark before dawn, but the air was already appreciably warmer than it had been at this time the previous day, and his boots squelched over muddy ground—a worrisome foretelling for the day’s travel.

When he entered the pavilion he found both Lord Bolecthindial and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel seated at the long table in the outer room. Servants were setting out breakfast breads and meats. Ivrulion followed on Runacarendalur’s heels a moment later.

“Here we are,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “A happy family, all together.”

“My commiserations upon the unexpected loss of Princess Angiothiel and Princess Ciliphirilir, in that case,” Runacarendalur said dryly, gazing around ostentatiously.

“Still asleep,” Ivrulion said. He walked past Runacarendalur to take a seat at the table, gesturing to a servant to pour him a cup of hot cider.

“Well, Runacar, sit down,” Glorthiachiel said irritably. “Don’t make me gape up at you. Lord Bolecthindial has distressing news.”

“You’re deaf, you addled viper,” her husband said, as Runacarendalur found a chair. “This was his idea. And since apparently Caerthalien is to be held at fault forever for anything Farcarinon’s whelp may do—”

“You should have let me bribe someone at the Sanctuary to poison her,” Glorthiachiel interrupted.

“—you will be hunting her down,” Lord Bolecthindial finished, speaking louder to drown out his wife’s words. “I strongly suggest you succeed.”

“What komen and supplies does the Alliance say I am permitted to take? I shall want Lightborn as well. And Ivrulion.”

“They offer me a free hand in provisioning this expedition,” Lord Bolecthindial said with heavy emphasis. “Undoubtedly they hope I will strip Caerthalien utterly of warriors, supplies, and Lightborn. You may take a grand-taille of komen and three score Lightborn, no more. And what supplies you will.”

It was more than generous, given that Lord Bolecthindial did not think he should go at all. Runacarendalur inclined his head. “I thank you, Father.” Quickly he outlined what he wanted.

“So little?” Lord Bolecthindial said, surprised.

“She had only a taille of komen with her, and perhaps some mercenaries. If the mercenaries haven’t already run off, I’ll hire them. For the rest, I want to travel as fast as possible. She already—”

“—has many days start. Yes. My ears are weary of hearing it,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “And before you ask—no, you do not have my leave to go. Send a servant to prepare your wagons. Are you some hedge knight who must do everything yourself?”

While the wagons were being loaded, Runacarendalur sent Ivrulion to Jaeglenhend’s Chief Huntsman. Ivrulion could be both charming and persuasive, and from Lady Valariel, he obtained her best tracker, a Landbond named Lidwal. It was nearly midday by the time Runacarendalur’s sortie party drew clear of the main force, for the morning had been a nightmare of stopping and starting and unsticking wagons mired in mud. His meisne rode fully armed and mounted on their destriers—Runacarendalur wouldn’t make the mistake of assuming Jaeglenhend wasn’t hostile; if there was anything the War Princes should have learned from this War Season, it was that the commons and the Landbonds were treacherous and untrustworthy. Beyond that, it wouldn’t hurt to give the destriers a little exercise before asking them to plod along under saddle while Lidwal searched for Vieliessar’s trail. They gave the horses a good gallop, and then reined them to a walk to let the wagons catch up.

“Maybe you’ll be fit to speak to now. My Lord,” Helecanth said, once the destriers had slowed.

Runacarendalur grinned at the captain of his personal guard. “Maybe I will. And even more so once we’ve dragged our so-called High King back to her execution!”

Helecanth laughed and set Rochonan dancing simply because she could. The day was bright and the air was cool. It’s a shame we don’t go to war in autumn more often, Runacarendalur thought. The weather’s perfect for it, and the days run short enough that fighting dawn to dusk wouldn’t be any hardship.

“Time to earn your bread,” Runacarendalur said to Lidwal. “What lies south of here?”

“How far south?” Lidwal asked. He looked too amused by his own wit for Runacarendalur’s taste.

“I am certain Lady Valariel expects you returned to her whole and unharmed,” Runacarendalur said, smiling as if he found Lidwal amusing. “But when you think about it, Lady Valariel is only Huntsman to the prince of a minor Less House, while I am Runacarendalur of Caerthalien. You may not care about that. But my brother is Lightborn, and he cares very much. I suggest you tell me what I want to know.”

Lidwal glanced from Runacarendalur to Ivrulion. Ivrulion smiled, and Runacarendalur thanked the Silver Hooves yet again for the fortune that had given his elder brother to the Light, for if it had not, he knew he would have faced a formidable competitor for their father’s throne—had he been born at all. Lidwal swallowed nervously, and Runacarendalur decided he’d judged correctly: a commonborn who knew himself too valuable to kill often became inured to physical punishment. But the hearth tales of the frightful spells the Lightborn could wield had spread even to crofter’s huts.

“I beg pardon, Prince Runacarendalur. I meant no harm,” Lidwal said humbly. “From here to the border, a few farms, nothing more. Follow this line due west and you might run into a hedge knight’s manor or two, but this far east … nothing.”

“And what lies on the other side of the border?” Runacarendalur asked.

“Nothing. My lord prince, I swear to you by the Huntsman it is true!” Lidwal cried in agitation. “To the south of Jaeglenhend there is forest. Nothing else.”

Runacarendalur glanced at Ivrulion. He’d never campaigned in the Uradabhur, and only ridden over it once, during the Bethros Rebellion. If he wasn’t going to fight over a territory, he didn’t care what was there, and if he was going to fight over it, he had maps.

“Is the forester lying, Mardioruin?” Ivrulion asked.

“It is as he says, Prince Ivrulion,” Mardioruin Lightbrother said. “There is nothing on Jaeglenhend’s southern border but forest. Some of the domains east of here extend farther south along the foothills of the Bazrahil range, but to take the Southern Pass Route westward one must jog northward at Keindostibaent and then track south again through the Tamabeth Hills.”

“Where is the nearest of the border keeps?” Runacarendalur asked next. Even if there were nothing to the south of Jaeglenhend but a lake of fire, there’d be watchtowers. And there was the Southern Pass road. If travelers from the Grand Windsward could use it, so could raiding parties from Keindostibaent.

Lidwal shook his head. “I know not!” he said quickly, when Runacarendalur frowned. “The hunting is poor to the south!”

And if there wasn’t decent hunting, there’d be no reason for the servants of the War Prince’s Huntsman ever to go there. “We’ll go straight south,” Runacarendalur decided. “Ride ahead. Look for tracks.”

Two days later Runacarendalur was beginning to wonder if Vieliessar had some form of Magery unknown to Ivrulion and other Lightborn. Lidwall’s painstaking inspection of the ground made their southerly progress a time-consuming thing, but better that than missing the track. But there’d been no sign of riders, and there was no one to ask, for the few border steadings they encountered were deserted and stripped, their fields either hastily harvested or simply set ablaze. A grand-taille of outlaws and a demi-taille of Lightborn, and not one blade of grass is bent, Runacarendalur thought in exasperation. Yet they must have come this way. Their mounts had been weary and starving; they did not possess the stamina to have doubled back or headed farther west.…

We’re running out of time, Runacarendalur thought uneasily, but he knew that wasn’t true. They’d already run out of time. It was Rade, and there was already snow in the mountain passes. Even if he found Vieliessar tomorrow and all her army surrendered at once, they were trapped here until spring thaw. Long enough for the Alliance War Princes to turn on each other, for the Less Houses of the Uradabhur to turn on the Alliance, for anything to happen …

Each night when they stopped, Ivrulion Farspoke Feliot Lightbrother to report their continued failure and hear news of Caerthalien. Runacarendalur disliked the sensation of being watched over and second-guessed, but it was a relief to hear that Caerthalien had not been set upon by its allies.

Allies! A pack of wild dogs coursing a fat stag, as willing to bring down the lions among them as to take their lawful prey …

As if sensing his brother’s growing frustration, this morning Ivrulion had suggested a hunting expedition, and a day of hunting and a supper of roast venison did much to improve Runacarendalur’s temper. Afterward he wandered idly through the encampment, stopping here and there to exchange a word or two with his komen, then walked out past the bounds. His breath fogged on the air, and the stars above were bright. The Starry Road was a band of Silverlight across the heavens: as a child, whenever Caerthalien rode to war, he would slip away from his nurse—and later, his servants—to stand beneath the night sky, imagining he could hear the cries of the Hunt as they carried away those his father and brothers had killed that day.…

“A word, brother.”

Runacarendalur hadn’t heard Ivrulion approach, but a part of him always expected to suddenly find his brother near, for when Ivrulion had returned from the Sanctuary with Lightborn powers of stealth and concealment, he hadn’t scrupled to use them to terrify his newest sibling.

“I stand ready to hear,” Runacarendalur said, turning and sweeping Ivrulion a mocking bow.

“I think you should come back within the bounds. Anything might be out here,” Ivrulion said.

“I wish it were,” Runacarendalur muttered.

“Does it occur to you that we can find no sign of them because they are not here to find?” Ivrulion asked. “In three days, much could happen. They are a sennight ahead of us. If they quarreled— If by some mischance Vieliessar Farcarinon was slain—”

“She is not dead!” Runacarendalur said. “I—” I would know. I, too, would die.…

He bit back the words unsaid, but it was too late. Ivrulion was studying him with new interest.

“Caerthalien stood in the front ranks at the false parley,” Ivrulion said.

“I was there,” Runacarendalur snapped. “To see Farcarinon once again profane the Code of Battle with trickery and lies.”

“Indeed,” his brother said. “I watched you that day. It seemed to me you meant to cry warning to our father that all was not as it seemed.”

“How should I have known that?” Runacarendalur said uneasily.

Ivrulion did not answer. “Walk with me, brother,” he said instead, taking Runacarendalur’s arm and leading him away from the encampment

They walked in silence for a time, until the lights of their camp were dimmed by distance. At last Ivrulion stopped.

“You were much changed upon your return from Oronviel,” he said.

“We lost,” Runacarendalur said shortly.

He was ill at ease with the direction of Ivrulion’s seemingly idle words. He would not have stood for such an interrogation from anyone else, even Lord Bolecthindial, but Ivrulion, of all his kin, was no threat to him. Lightborn might betray—Caerthalien had always safeguarded itself by ensuring that they would watch one another, vying for status and privileges—but what greater honors could Ivrulion wish than those he already held? Ivrulion could never inherit Caerthalien. So Mosirinde Peacemaker and Arilcarion War-Maker intended, when they drew up the Code of Battle and the Lightborn Covenant. If no Lightborn can inherit a domain, or deed any of their gifts and honors to their children, it only makes sense for them to be loyal to those who can. Before Oronviel, he’d been confident Ivrulion would outlive him and stand ready to guard the next War Prince of Caerthalien as he’d guarded the last.

And so he would, but that War Prince would not be Runacarendalur’s child.

“A tragic day,” Ivrulion said smoothly. “And yet … I feel there is more to your distemper than a loss upon the battlefield. Oronviel’s victory that day touches Bolecthindial’s honor—yet it is you who would cast off all reason and sense to compass Vieliessar Farcarinon’s death.”

“I act for the good of Caerthalien!” Runacarendalur said, but even in his own ears, his words rang hollow. I will not be Bonded to a monster!

“And yet … Is it good to withhold from Caerthalien that which may profit it to know?” Ivrulion asked silkily. “I think you have a secret you wish to confide in me, brother.”

There is nothing to tell. He opened his mouth, the words ready on his tongue.

But those were not the words he spoke. Instead, “Vieliessar Farcarinon is my destined Bondmate,” he said, and saw Ivrulion smile.

“So I suspected.”

“You— How dare you bespell me, as if I were—” Runacarendalur willed himself attack, to draw his sword, to strike down his treacherous brother. Instead, he staggered backward a few clumsy steps.

“Some treacherous vassal, some outlaw, some Landbond rabble?” Ivrulion said lightly. His smile was a cold and predatory thing. “But dear brother, what may we say of one who has held Vieliessar Farcarinon’s life in his hands this half-year and forborn to take it?”

“No one would believe it was other than a plot by Caerthalien to…” Runacarendalur’s ragged words faltered to a stop, but at least this time they were his own. He imagined he could feel the Magery Ivrulion had netted him in like a cold slime upon his skin, taking from him all dignity, all choice …

“As my choice was taken!” Ivrulion said, and for once the cold, controlled voice held bright anger. “I was Heir-Prince to Caerthalien! I! You were not even thought of! It was to have been mine! Instead, I am a servant, to scrape and bow, to take orders like the lowest hedge knight, to see my children dispraised, having nothing unless the charity of the next War Prince decrees it! Do you know what my Midwinter Gift was in the year I was Chosen? A sword. I had ridden to war as our father’s arming page. In the summer to come, he would have made me komen. But I did not ride to war that summer. No. When War Season came that year, I was at the Sanctuary of the Star, scrubbing pots and sweeping floors. I comforted myself with the knowledge that Domcariel was slow and foolish, and I would still rule Caerthalien with him as my puppet. And when at last I was released, I discovered they had bred another heir. You.”

“But you were Called.…” Runacarendalur faltered, still stunned by Ivrulion’s fury. How could ’Rulion have held the dream of Caerthalien so close that none of them had suspected he was rotted through with cheated ambition?

“Called!” Ivrulion spat. “I was never meant to go before Astorion Lightbrother in Open Court that night! It should have been Carangil or Feliot, who knew what they should see and what they should not. Helegondolrindir Astromancer was as rotted through with dreams and ambitions as both her successors. It was her scheming that set me before Astorion. But I have been patient. And my patience is to be rewarded at last.…”

He is mad, Runacarendalur thought in horror, trying desperately to guard his thoughts from Ivrulion’s hearing. He would die, and this madthing, this witchborn traitor brother, would be Regent.…

“Oh, Rune, sweet brother,” Ivrulion said, shaking his head sadly. “Do you think me so simple? Come. Let us see what we may make of this Bond of yours.…”

Runacarendalur stood helplessly as Ivrulion advanced upon him. He felt cool hands pressed against his temples.

And then there was only light, and pain.

For a moment Runacarendalur could not think where he was. He thought hazily of battle, of being struck from Gwaenor’s back and carried to the Healing Tents. But his fingers flexed in night-chill grass as, with a groan, he opened his eyes. The sky above him was pale with dawn, and even that small light was enough to send lancing pain through his head. He winced, turning his head to the side.

“What a pity,” Ivrulion said.

“That I’m alive?” Runacarendalur asked after a moment, his voice, a hoarse whisper.

“That it didn’t work,” Ivrulion said reprovingly. “I’d hoped to locate the supposed High King through your Bond. But alas, my poor skills proved inadequate to that task.”

“I’ll see you dead.” With a supreme effort, Runacarendalur rolled onto his stomach. Nausea surged through him but he fought it back as he struggled to rise.

“By the Light, I never before thought you stupid.” Ivrulion stepped forward and hauled him to his feet. Runacarendalur balanced on unsteady legs, swaying and gasping. “Do you think I’m going to let you fling yourself at our dear father’s feet and confess?”

Runacarendalur shook his head, trying to clear it. Would Bolecthindial believe him? It didn’t matter. He had to try.

“You see, dear brother—or you should, since your tactical skills have made you the darling of the Storysingers—one does not throw away a useful weapon. Go to Bolecthindial to confess, and you will find you cannot. Take up your courage to end your life and your Bondmate’s, and you will find you cannot.” Ivrulion took him by the arm and began to walk him back toward the camp. Runacarendalur staggered and stumbled beside him, helpless to resist.

His strength returned swiftly, though his head ached abominably. After a few paces, Runacarendalur yanked his arm free and took a step backward. His hand closed over the hilt of his sword, and as it did, he vowed to the Silver Hooves that one of them would die here this day. Perhaps both.

He pulled at the sword with all his strength. It did not move.

“Attempt to kill me, and you will find you cannot do that either,” Ivrulion said gently. He smiled, and for an instant Runacarendalur saw his brother, his ally, his friend …

Then Ivrulion’s dark eyes grew hard and cold. His smile did not change.

“Now come. Your komen will wonder what has kept you from your bed all night. And I am eager for my breakfast.”