Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy)

by James Mallory Mercedes Lackey

  Thurion smiled faintly. He never had any appetite after a day in the Healing Tents. At least she is spared this, he thought vaguely.

  Perhaps—in another year or two—he might petition Lord Bolecthindial to allow him to return to the Sanctuary for a time.

  If Caerthalien did not receive any great challenges.

  If its eternal wars and intrigues went well enough to grant House Caerthalien a season or two of quiet.

  If.

  * * *

  As Vieliessar settled once more into the life of the Sanctuary, she found it had become yet again a different place, for now she joined a company that had no match anywhere in all the Fortunate Lands: those Lightborn who made the Sanctuary of the Star their home.

  At first, her mind was filled with what she had seen within the Shrine. She spent candlemarks in the Great Library scouring the books of prophecy and legend for some explanation. The Jade Mirror spoke of the interpretation of dreams or visions. The Book of Veils recounted those methods that could be used to evoke a foretelling or even a prophecy. The Fire Alphabet listed fulfilled prophecies that were the fruit of more than one fortelling. None of them held any hint of what the Huntsman had spoken of, so she turned again to The Song of Amrethion, only to find it as cryptic as before.

  Slowly the urgency of her vision faded. It began to seen like a storysong she had once heard, a matter which had little to do with the life she lived. She had wondered, before she dared the Shrine, if taking the Green Robe would mean a life of idleness, but no. There were tasks to perform such as she might have found beneath the roof of any noble house: spells must be set, woven into clothing or horse harness or any of a dozen homely objects; cordials must be compounded and en-Lightened, food preserved.

  When all who had known her as a fellow Postulant were gone, there would be teaching and guiding for her to do, but for now, her hands were deft in Healing, her mind quick and clever at Warding; she could conjure impenetrable invisibility about herself, Call forth storms and lightning, tame the fiercest creatures of forest and plain and Summon them to her hand, and those things were enough for her.

  There were times the acceptance of her fate troubled her: to die forsworn was a terrible thing, unless one could pass the unkept vow on to another, but who could she lay such an impossible task upon? Who would take it up? Was it right to compass the weaving of Caerthalien’s utter destruction at all?

  She no longer knew. The vengeance her child-self had yearned for had been in her power for many years. Even before she had taken the Green Robe she could have stepped from Arevethmonion to Rimroheth and gone to Caerthalien Great Keep. There she could have Unmade Caerthalien’s stones into mist and shadow, struck Bolecthindial and all his Line dead with Mage-conjured lightning.…

  And she had not, for even then, each year she had passed taught her more of the Light. She had learned at last to see it in the way Thurion had spoken of so long ago—and to see the world as a vast machine, a flour mill or cistern pump made up of lives and years, meant for no other purpose than to hold and reveal the Light. Set against that, the death of Caerthalien seemed a small and useless thing. It would not raise Farcarinon from the dust, nor check a single prince’s greed and ambition.

  Perhaps, she thought, Maeredhiel was right, when she told me my greatest vengeance would be simply to live.

  And so the years spun onward, first at a stately measured pace, then faster—so it seemed—as Vieliessar gained greater years of her own. Each springtide was a new surprise, each summer a wonder, each autumn a glory and a sadness, each gem-bright winter a new mystery.

  She was content.

  * * *

  “Come! Vieliessar, you must come! Now! A Healing is needed!”

  For a moment Vieliessar was dazed with sleep. She had only reached her bed a few candlemarks ago, for someone had been needed to bespell Rosemoss Farm to ensure good harvest, and no one else knew the delicate spells as well as she. Hearing Hervilafimir’s voice did nothing to ease her confusion, for Hervilafimir had been called back to Nantirworiel years before, leaving the healing rooms in charge of Lightbrother Thelifent. But none of the Lightborn left the Sanctuary forever, and Hervilafimir had recently returned, for Healing was her great love.

  And in this time, it was needed more than ever before, for the Hundred Houses fought one another from Sword to Harvest, and the Beastlings pressed hard upon their borders, searching for any sign of weakness.

  “I am awake, ’Fimir,” Vieliessar sighed, sitting up in her bed and running her hands through her short-clipped hair. She snapped her fingers and the room blinked into brightness. It was still at least a candlemark till dawn. Hervilafimir’s grey tabard, worn to protect her green robes from the blood and dirt of the healing chambers, was spattered with blood and muck. She looked tired and frightened.

  “Please, Vielle. I know you are weary, but if you do not come, Amlunan will die, and I know not what Lord Manderechiel will do!”

  “I am coming now,” Vieliessar protested, getting to her feet and reaching for her robe. “How is it that Ladyholder Dormorothon could not aid him?” she asked, her voice only slightly muffled by the robe she was pulling over her head. Ladyholder Dormorothon of Aramenthiali was also Dormorothon Lightsister, and Vieliessar could not believe that Aramenthiali’s Lady would not Heal Aramenthiali’s Warlord.

  “She has tried!” Hervilafimir said. “He took his wound in Sword, and she labored over him sennight upon sennight before bringing him to us!”

  “Then why is he not yet dead?” Vieliessar grumbled, slipping her feet into her leather-soled stockings. It was Fire Moon now, which meant eight sennights at least since Amlunan had taken his injury. She Called a basin of water to her and splashed her face, then Sent it away again and took a deep breath. “No, tell me as we go. He is in the healing chambers, is he not?”

  “These four candlemarks,” Hervilafimir answered, as they walked from the sleeping room. “I would not have called upon you, but I cannot break the spell.”

  “Spell?” Vieliessar said sharply. To bespell the Warlord of a House for baneful purposes was treason if done by that House’s Lightborn, and warcraft if done by another House. Either was impossible to imagine.

  “Dormorothon has said it was no Lightborn, but one of the Beastlings who did this.”

  “She is here?” Vieliessar demanded, her mind racing. Aramenthiali lay east of Caerthalien; half a dozen domains and the Sanctuary itself lay between them and the Western Shore. Where had Amlunan taken such hurt?

  “She is,” Hervilfimir said grimly. “Nor will she leave his side—she and all her entourage.”

  Their conversation had taken them down the staircase and along the corridor that led to the healing chambers. Vieliessar’s steps slowed. She could see the echoes of the Banespell clinging to the walls and the floor like filth.

  ’Fimir knew it was a Banespell—she would have Warded the treatment chamber …

  But it was as if there were no Shields at all. Vieliessar’s spellsight showed foulness like liquid shadow pooling upon the floor, bedewing the walls, wafting through the air like an evil fog. Banespells drew power from their victims and could even claim the lives of those around the afflicted.

  It is the great mercy of Sword and Star that there are few patients here today, Vieliessar thought, for the whole of the healing chambers would need cleansing once Amlunan had been Healed.

  Or had died.

  The Banespell eddied around those standing sentry in the hall.

  Ladyholder Dormorothon’s hair was as short as any other Lightborn’s, but she wore a veil of glittering silver gauze that masked its length. She wore the green-and-silver of the Sanctuary, but the cut and fabric of her garments was as elaborate as any Lady of a High House might wear, and her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers were heavy with jewels. Behind her stood two komen with surcoats of Aramenthiali blue and gold over their armor, and beside them, two youngsters who had not yet reached their second decade. One wore the heavy padded leat
her that proclaimed her an arming page, the other the soft and fashionable silks that marked him as Dormorothon’s personal page.

  “You may not loiter here,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Lightsister, you know this well. If you will not go to the guesthouse yourself, then send your people there at once.”

  For a moment it seemed as if Dormorothon would argue, but then she raised her hand. “Geleborn, take the others to Mistress Hamonglachele. I will remain to attend Amlunan,” she added, staring challengingly at Vieliessar.

  “You will go with them, for if your power was great enough to aid Amlunan you would not be here at all,” Vieliessar said sharply. She did not wait to see if Dormorothon obeyed.

  Vieliessar strengthened her Shields, then sent Power to the door of the chamber in which Amlunan waited. Energy crackled over and through the Banespell, but did not dispel it. She had not thought it would. She slid the door aside.

  The healing chamber was large, for it was as much a place of teaching as it was a place of healing. Disease and injury could befall both Lightborn and Lightless alike, and in cases where Healing need not be done, the proper spells could still lift pain from the sufferer. To the Lightless, it seemed all that was needed was a touch or a gesture—and so Vieliessar had believed herself until the day she had first come under Hervilafimir’s tutelage. In truth, the Lightborn must first see the patient whole and unmarred, and next, eliminate the discord between their self as it was, and as it had been and would be. If only the flesh required aid, that was a simple enough matter. If spirit or mind had been harmed—or if the sufferer were bespelled—the task was more complex.

  The Lightless believed that sometimes a Healing failed. The truth, as all Lightborn knew, was that if the Healer survived, the Healing had not failed. But there were times a Healer must choose—their own life, or the life of their patient.

  I shall not choose, Vieliessar told herself grimly.

  Amlunan should have been in the vigor of his middle years, his body filled with the strength and grace of a life spent upon the battlefield. The warrior who lay upon the bed was gaunt with illness, his body prematurely withered and frail. His long black hair was dull and lifeless, his cheeks sunken with pain. The stench of bane and wound-fever assaulted Vieliessar’s senses. The new, white bandages that Hervilafimir must have placed upon his wound were already stained with wound-poison and his ivory skin had a grey undertone. Yet his dark eyes were bright and aware. Were he not strong, he would have died sennights ago.

  “Lightsister,” he said, his voice a croaking whisper. “Have you come to summon the Silver Hooves to bear me away?”

  “I come to cast out the hurt you have taken,” Vieliessar said crisply. “Naught else.” Walking the few steps to his bedside made her skin crawl even through her shields. It was as if she was immersed in a chill river of slime.

  “My Lady has tried. Your own Healing Mistress as well. Who are you to set your power above theirs?”

  “One whom Hervilafimir thinks shall prevail,” she answered. She knelt beside his bed and reached for his hand.

  “I would know your name,” Amlunan insisted, struggling to raise himself to a sitting position and failing in his weakness.

  “And I would know how you came to take this hurt,” Vieliessar answered. Amlunan had been Warlord of Aramenthiali in Serenthon’s day; she would not conjure old enmities to complicate her task. Her fingers closed around his hand. It was cold and clammy, and she could feel the tremors of pain that passed through him.

  “As any might,” Amlunan whispered, closing his eyes. “Aramenthiali sent aid to Cirandeiron. They suspected Daroldan of betrayal, though Daroldan was bound to peace by treaty. In the forest of Avribalzar did Aramenthiali absolve Daroldan.” He paused, struggling for breath. “A she-beast did this. She struck me with a spear. Slain by Guiomar Lightbrother, she slew him in turn. At first, I knew not of her deceitfulness.” Even that short speech had exhausted him. He turned his head away, gasping for breath.

  Vieliessar had questioned Amlunan to summon to the surface of his mind his memories of that day. His words were of less import than his thoughts. As if she had been there, Vieliessar saw the dimness of the forest, the furred form of the Beastling shamaness as she reared up out of concealment to strike. The Beastlings were clever, and their sorcerers doubly so—she could see, now, how the Banespell had defeated both Hervilafimir and Dormorothon. Amlunan’s wound was in his thigh, but the spear had not needed to pierce his flesh to do him harm. It had been crafted to transform the energy of Healing to feed shields that would make Healing impossible, while continuing to work its evil behind them.

  My power is greater than theirs.

  Once she had dreamed of becoming a Knight. She had already survived more and fiercer battles than any save the greatest of komentai’a could boast of. It was not for her skill at Healing that Hervilafimir had called her, but for her power.

  It was time now to ride to battle once more.

  She closed her eyes.

  Merely to break through the Banespell’s defenses to read Amlunan’s true self was a terrible fight. She was forced to drop her own shields to See him clearly, and from that moment, the Banespell fed upon them both.

  She had expected that. It was how she would win.

  She felt the Banespell’s coldness slide into the marrow of her bones and knew her life to be measured now in heartbeats. Felt the malevolent shield its mistress had crafted for it wrap itself about her, sealing her away from all aid her brethren might render.

  Sealing her within its compass with the one she sought to Heal.

  Sometimes these spell-battles returned to her in dreams, clothing themselves in words and homely form. Sometimes she knew herself clad in armor of green and silver, wielding a sword that burned like starlight, mounted upon a destrier as white as the moon, fighting alone against a vast and ever-hungry horde of Beastlings until sword, armor, destrier—all—were stained with monstrous ichor.

  Now she held the image of Amlunan strong within her mind, demanding of the Light that what she saw must become the world’s truth. Because she desired it. Because she willed it. Because the world itself must bow to the will of the Lightborn.

  If the Lightborn was strong enough.

  She felt Arevethmonion’s life beat brightly against her skin. Hers to command. Hers to wield. If she chose, she could drain it to dust, until nothing remained of it but sterile sand. She could drain the life from every leaf and stalk and tree and flower, then reach out and take the lives which filled the Sanctuary of the Star. Take the beasts of the fields, the birds of the air, the fishes of river, lake, and the vast ocean itself.

  All could be hers, if she chose.

  But not today. Even the vile sorcery of the Beastling shamaness was not great enough to outmatch Arevethmonion’s might, wielded by one who did not count the cost. Brightness beyond sun, beyond fire, beyond the matchless blaze of Silverlight filled her senses.

  In that moment, it seemed the Light had voice, a living consciousness like her own. This is what I give, if you are strong enough to take it …

  And her Healing was done.

  She blinked dazedly at the walls of the Healing chamber. She felt suddenly alone, as if a dearly loved one had left her, for spellcraft was not without cost. Like a magnificent destrier, its power was the Lightborn’s to call and command, but to control its power was wearying as riding a high-couraged stallion and bending the beast to one’s will. Every Healer was taught to keep back enough power from the green life upon which it fed to heal one’s own hurts. This time, she had not been able to.

  For long moments Vieliessar stared, exhausted, at nothing. Amlunan’s breathing had evened into true and restful sleep. She knew she should rouse herself and bring the news to Hervilafimir, but she could not find the strength. She came to herself at last as gentle hands lifted her to her feet.

  “The jewel of Aramenthiali lives,” she heard Maeredhiel say. “As does nine-blessed Arevethmonion, despite your efforts.
Now sleep.”

  * * *

  By the time Vieliessar could rise from her bed once more, Aramenthiali had departed the Sanctuary, but it had left behind it unexpected treasure.

  “All I know is what I have said,” Hamonglachele said. “Komen and great lords may speak before us as if we are nothing more than chests and tapestries, but they would surely notice if a tapestry were to question them!”

  Vieliessar laughed, and shoved her counter across the gan board with one fingertip. Even as a Postulant, she had never entirely abandoned the Servants’ Hall, for it seemed uncivil to her to abandon old companions merely because of a change in fortune. Though she now wore Lightborn green, the servants still welcomed her as one of their own—and in truth, who else might she call friend? Candidates stayed for a scant wheel of seasons; Postulants for a decade or two. She could number upon her fingers the Lightborn who tenanted the Sanctuary for even half an Astromancer’s reign—and she did not call Hamphuliadiel or his court of sycophants ‘friend’.

  “Did a tapestry hear that the Child of the Prophecy had risen in Haldil, I think even it would cry out,” Vieliessar said dryly.

  “‘Aramenthiali helps to hold the West without thought for its own advantage because in the East, the Four Score behave as unruly children,’” Hamonglachele quoted mockingly. “Think you such a marvel can be true?”

  “If Malbeth of Haldil is Child of the Prophecy, anything is possible,” Vieliessar said. “And I have you surrounded, Mistress ’Chele.”

  Hamonglachele looked down at the board and laughed. “The student surpasses the master!” she cried. “I have nothing left to teach you.”

  Vieliessar smiled, then scooped her counters off the board, for it was nearly time to dim the lamps. She tidied away the gan set and thanked Hamonglachele for the game, then walked from the Servants’ Wing back to her chamber.

  It was a place less stark than her Postulant chamber had been. Her clothing belonged to her now, rather than being from a common store, and she possessed a fine carved chest that held winter and summer robes and underrobes. A shelf hung upon her wall, deep enough to hold scrolls borrowed from the library plus cherrybark canisters of her special tea blendings and a flat book where she recorded her experiments and recipes. Beneath it was a table at which she might sit to read or write, and a cushion on which to kneel. Though her bed was no softer than her Candidate’s bed had been, its frame was carved and polished and her blankets were of new wool.