Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy)

by James Mallory Mercedes Lackey

  “You must!” she answered fiercely. “Do you think I wish for this, Gunedwaen Swordmaster? I wish nothing more than to live out my life as a child of the Light. But I may not. And to say to you more than this will bring about your death as surely as if I stabbed you through the heart myself.”

  “My life is not so glorious that I would regret leaving it,” Gunedwaen said. “But I would be nine times a fool to give you that which you ask only because you ask it.”

  “Then swear to me you are Farcarinon’s still,” she whispered, and even in the dim firelight he could see tears glitter in her eyes.

  “I am Farcarinon’s until the stars grow cold,” he answered steadily. “I beg your forgiveness, my prince. I was borne from the field against my will. I gave no parole to Caerthalien.”

  None had been needed, after Ivrulion Light-Prince’s working.

  Farcarinon—what name she bore he did not know—took a step toward him, so swift that Striker got to her feet. But she merely knelt beside his chair and took his hand in hers. Her fingers were soft, her hands those of one who had never held a sword. “There is no need to ask, Master Gunedwaen. You preserved your life until I came for you. And I beg your forgiveness in turn, for I must have your knowledge and skill. Teach me as you taught my father.”

  “My lady,” he said helplessly, “Farcarinon is gone.”

  She smiled at him, and her smile was brilliant with grief. “So I believed for long years. But I do not seek to raise Farcarinon from its ashes.”

  “Then … what?” he asked. “My lord, if any of Prince Serenthon’s komentai’a survived, they have pledged fealty elsewhere. Or they are useless, as I am.”

  “Not useless to me, Master Gunedwaen,” she answered. “I call you back to service now.”

  “And I come,” Gunedwaen answered steadily. “But you must tell me what brings you here, for I cannot aid you without that knowledge.”

  “I will be the death of you,” Farcarinon answered softly. “Nor shall I tell you all, and you must content yourself with that. But I shall tell you this: I was born Vieliessar Farcarinon, War Prince of Farcarinon, in the Sanctuary of the Star. Celelioniel Astromancer named me Child of the Prophecy, but I would not hear. I beg you: hear all I would not, for our time grows short. High King Amrethion Aradruiniel spoke a Foretelling on the day he fell from the Unicorn Throne, giving warning of the day the Hundred would face an enemy who did not wish to take their lands and wealth, but their lives—all life, to the least blade of grass in the humblest field. It is foretold that this Darkness will strip the flesh from the bones of the world, and none of the War Princes knows—or cares!”

  “How came you to know these things?” Gunedwaen asked. How came you to know Aramenthiali’s plan? Is this count you bring us of Caerthalien’s knights accurate? You say Oronviel will not fight this day—who has said this where you might hear? The ghost of what he once was rose up in his question.

  The words his liege-lord and prince had spoken already were near to madness, but that madness was compounded by the words she spoke next. She told of Celelioniel Astromancer’s quest, of Celelioniel’s discovery of the truth and meaning of the ancient Prophecy, of her own place within its web.

  Vieliessar stroked Striker’s head absently as she knelt beside Gunedwaen’s chair. “I might say to you Serenthon-my-father received a Foretelling of Celelioniel of the failure of his ambition, of his death, my mother’s death, my birth—but who can know what happened that day save those who were there, and they are all gone to the night winds,” she said, her voice quiet. “I could say to you all my words are proven in scrolls hidden away by Hamphuliadiel, in Foretellings given by generations of Astromancers, in histories too dry for any but scholars—but such words will not sway princes and knights.” She laughed bitterly. “They don’t even persuade scholars, for Hamphuliadiel thinks the evil day can be averted by destroying the warning of it. I know one thing only: the Darkness comes, and it comes soon, and if the Hundred Houses are not united against it, then we shall all perish as if we never were. I must do what my father could not do—and if you will not help me, I shall fail.”

  Years of patient alliances, gifts and promises, and secret treaties had brought Serenthon close to making himself High King—so close the Hundred Houses had not been content with merely humbling Farcarinon, but had destroyed its castels and keeps, slaughtered its komen, and carried its vassals off to live out their lives on alien ground. And now Serenthon’s daughter sought him out, saying she must succeed at the task that had broken Farcarinon.

  “You might fail even with my aid,” Gunedwaen said gently. “I cannot give you all the skills you seek. I cannot give you victory.”

  “The Hundred will not follow a Green Robe,” Vieliessar said flatly. “Give me your swordcraft, Master Gunedwaen, and I will put off that robe for a knight’s armor. I can see no other way. But if you will not aid me,” Vieliessar said quietly, “I will go.”

  “‘Haste gives a thousand knights to the enemy,’” Gunedwaen answered absently. Whether it was madness or a sanity that transcended sense, he would follow Farcarinon’s last prince. “Come, my lord. Build up the fire. It is late and the room grows cold. And we have much to speak of before we begin.”

  * * *

  The message had been sent from the Sanctuary of the Star in Flower Moon, but hadn’t reached Thurion until the end of Harvest, for he had been in the field with the army. The seneschal at Caerthalien Keep had sent the scroll onward, of course, but scrollcase had been left behind to save weight and space in the dispatch rider’s bags.

  Thurion had thought nothing of it at the time—messages came from the Sanctuary to its former students now and then. In the scroll Momioniarch Lightsister had asked if Caerthalien would permit him to return to the Sanctuary to teach for a year. Thurion had not needed to consult Lord Bolecthindial to know the answer to that: he had sent his regrets by spellbird and forgotten the matter completely until the day he returned, at long last, to his rooms in Caerthalien Keep to find the Sanctuary’s green-and-silver scrollcase sitting atop a chest.

  He’d picked it up absently, thinking that he could not return it to the Sanctuary until the Candidates went in the spring. When he touched the scrollcase, the Sanctuary’s true message was revealed, unrolling in his mind in Hamphuliadiel’s voice.

  “To Thurion Lightbrother, greetings. I send you this message in secret not to set you at odds with Caerthalien, but in warning—” Thurion dropped the scrollcase in surprise. He could not imagine why the Astromancer would send him a message at all, much less by secret means. The case hit the floor and rolled under his bed, and it took him several minutes to retrieve it. Then he knelt on the floor, clutching the silver-stamped leather case tightly as the voice echoed through his mind.

  Vieliessar had left—fled—the Sanctuary of the Star sometime in the spring. “I believe she means to break the Covenant in order to take revenge in Farcarinon’s name against Caerthalien and the other houses of the Grand Alliance…” Warning was being sent to the senior Lightborn of those Houses—Caerthalien, Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, and Telthorelandor—which had been crucial to Farcarinon’s fall. “I do not charge any of you with silence. You may tell whom you choose what I have conveyed to you, yet know that I believe it would not be well to make the matter of a disobedient Lightborn too public a matter, lest it seem to involve the Sanctuary of the Star in matters from which it has always stood apart. That Vieliessar is Farcarinon is unfortunate, for reasons you well understand…”

  The information was stunning, but not so stunning that Thurion’s mind did not race on ahead of it. “Senior” Lightborn. That can mean oldest, or of highest rank. Perhaps Carangil Lightbrother, as Ladyholder Glorthiachiel uses him to spy on everyone here. Ivrulion Light-Prince must have received this news, whether from Carangil or from the Sanctuary—and some time ago, for I know he has returned here several times since Flower. Thurion did his best to still his questions, for the message was still unspooling in his m
ind, and once it had run its course, he suspected the spell would unravel and vanish.

  “I am a humble servant of the Light which shines for all whether of High House or Low, and I uphold the justice of the great lords of the Fortunate Lands. I have hunted the rebel Vieliessar from the moment I discovered her gone. My search has been fruitless, and so I send to you, Thurion of Caerthalien, as once—perhaps unwisely—you held yourself her friend. If she comes to you, I charge you by the Light we both serve to take her prisoner by any means you can, and be aware that any tale she tells you is merely trickery and lies that serve her insane desire. Be a strong defender of your noble house, Thurion of Caerthalien, and repay the love and care your Prince has always had for you…”

  The voice stopped, and Thurion felt a tingle beneath his fingertips as the message-spell unmade itself.

  Hamphuliadiel, you are indeed a fool, he thought in annoyance. It will be a great day for the Lightborn when your reign as Astromancer is over. Words Thurion had never thought to think, but how could Hamphuliadiel—how could anyone who had been at the Sanctuary during Thurion’s training—believe lies could deceive him? He did not need to set a spell of Heart-Seeing on someone to know the truth: all he had to do was listen to their thoughts.…

  The Astromancer’s message was a lie. How could Hamphuliadiel know what Vielle meant to do? Unless she’d told him—and Thurion could not believe that. He could believe that she had vanished from the Sanctuary and that they had not found her, but anything beyond those two facts could be nothing other than conjecture. He rose slowly to his feet, still clutching the now-inert scrollcase, and tried to decide what to do next. Go to Ivrulion and tell him he’d received a spell-message from the Sanctuary? Wait for Ivrulion to speak first? He felt a clutch of angry fear at being forced to decide how deep his loyalty to Caerthalien ran, and suddenly words he’d once said to Vielle crowded into memory, the words as sharp and clear as if they, too, were a spell-message.

  “Prisoner, hostage, I care not if you are Farcarinon, or Caerthalien, or the Child of the Prophecy. My family does not even own the roof above our heads. A third of what we harvest each year goes to pay Menenel Farmholder for our shelter and our seed grain. All we have ever asked is that the great lords do not ride across our fields and spoil our work—and if they do, or even fight across them, there is nothing we can say without punishment. Do you think the quarrels of the Hundred Houses matter to me? How has your life been harder than mine?”

  He heard the hall door creak as it swung inward and turned toward the sound. He was so convinced it would be Denerarth—returned from the tasks attendant upon settling the two of them back into their usual quarters—that he stared at the figure in the doorway for a long moment in utter silence.

  Ivrulion Light-Prince tapped the scrollcase he held gently on the doorframe. “It seems that we have both been favored by a message from the Astromancer,” he said, nodding toward the scrollcase in Thurion’s hand.

  “It only just reached me, Lord Ivrulion,” Thurion said. “I suppose they both said much the same thing.”

  “Why not tell me what yours says, and we shall see?” Ivrulion replied pleasantly. The pleasantry was a fraud: Thurion had long known Ivrulion to be as coldly ambitious as his father.

  “Vieliessar of— Of nowhere, I suppose, Lord Ivrulion,” he answered, stumbling slightly over the words, for to name someone without being able to name their House was nearly unthinkable. “Vieliessar Lightsister left the Sanctuary of the Star in the spring. Hamphuliadiel does not know where she is. At least, he didn’t when he sent to me.”

  “Did you not find it curious he would send to you? Oh, but I forget—you and she were friends at the Sanctuary.”

  “We were in the same Service Year.” Thurion chose his words carefully; he knew Ivrulion had forgotten nothing. “I suppose we were friends as much as anyone is there.” He shrugged. “She was not Chosen when I was, as you know. Later, of course, the Light kindled in her. She took the Green Robe, but I had left long before. Hamphuliadiel thinks she may come here—and charges me to take her prisoner if she does.”

  “When she does?” Ivrulion said, his tone making it clear it was a question.

  “My lord, I do not know.” Thurion’s gaze was clear and untroubled as he met Ivrulion’s eyes. His True Speech was far stronger than anyone else’s in the castel; the stronger the Gift, the less that same Gift could be used against one. Ivrulion could not hear his thoughts. “The Astromancer believes she left the Sanctuary in order to exact revenge. I suppose he is correct. He has known her far longer than I.” He’d told Vieliessar once that each House was like any other. He would not betray Caerthalien to an enemy, but he would not take its causes as his own.

  After a moment Ivrulion stepped away from the doorframe and smiled faintly. “I think if she meant to come for vengeance, she would have done it moonturns ago, don’t you? Perhaps she became disordered in her wits and simply fled the Sanctuary, but it will do no harm to search for her, and it might even be amusing. I am sure you will wish to accompany me.”

  “Of course,” Thurion answered automatically, and Ivrulion’s smile widened slightly.

  “Then I will leave you to become reacquainted with a dry roof and your own bed. I shall see you on the morrow.”

  * * *

  That following day was the first of many Thurion spent in Ivrulion’s company. It was uncomfortable, for Thurion knew the War Prince’s son still held him in suspicion. Better that, Thurion thought, than that he seek me as an ally. Thurion had never boasted of the strength of his Keystone Gift, though he knew full well that Ivrulion was aware of it. It was why Thurion ate at the High Table, why Lord Bolecthindial called upon him more often than any others to stand beside him at Court and set a spell of Heart-Seeing upon those whom Lord Bolecthindial deemed to be less than forthcoming.

  Alone together, Thurion and Ivrulion visited all the Flower Forests within a day’s ride—Rimroheth, Angoratorei, Alqualanya, Valmenandlae, Rolliondale—for the Flower Forests resonated to the Light, and if Vieliessar had entered Caerthalien and used Magery here, some trace should be left. Ivrulion’s conversation always seemed idle, but it returned, again and again, to Vieliessar. Thurion had the sense that much of what he said in answer Ivrulion already knew, and while Thurion was careful to tell all of what he knew, he was equally carefull to tell little of what he guessed. Ivrulion spoke of Vieliessar’s childhood in the Great Keep and of his hope that she would come to Caerthalien so he could extend to her his personal assurance of protection.

  “—of course there must never be any children, but that is a simple Binding to craft, and were she wed to my Huthiel, her position would be assured. And she would be most welcome here, for I have heard that her Healing skill is great. Indeed, Warlord Amlunan boasted of it when we met Aramenthiali upon the field this summer—he would not have lived without her art.”

  “The Light has indeed blessed her,” Thurion answered, taking care to speak as if he believed Ivrulion’s words to be true.

  At first they rode out every day, but soon days and even sennights passed before Ivrulion proposed another expedition, for they found neither presence nor trace of Vieliessar, no matter now closely they searched the Flower Forests. No further message came from Hamphuliadiel, and at last Ivrulion, bored, pronounced himself satisfied that Vieliessar had never come to Caerthalien. Thurion did not know whether he was satisfied of Vielle’s absence or Thurion’s loyalty: all he knew for certain was that when he begged permission from Lord Bolecthindial to visit Sweethallow Farm and his family, it was granted as easily as it had always been.

  Wherever you have gone, Vielle, I hope you are safe and happy there. And free.

  * * *

  Her footsteps crunched through the crust of new-fallen snow as she ran. The winter air was a sharp knife in her throat; her breath smoked on the chill air. This is the domain that should have been mine. And if it were—oh, Silver Hooves defend!—for how long should I have been able to hold it
against the Darkness?

  She ran on. One league out. One league back. She ran this course every day, at Gunedwaen’s command.

  The journey to Farcarinon had taken them from Rade to Woods. She could have brought Gunedwaen and Striker through a Mage Door and stepped from Rimroheth to Eldanwarasse in a heartbeat—and the power she would have woven to make her door would have been as palpable to every Green Robe as if she stood beside each one and shouted aloud. Instead she had Called a horse to carry Gunedwaen and Striker. They’d all been surprised when the animal who answered was a lively young mare. Gunedwaen had promptly named her Trouble, but under Vieliessar’s spells of control she’d been biddable enough. And—like Vieliessar—Trouble had gone where Gunedwaen commanded her.

  First to the place where Farcarinon’s Keep had once stood, a wasteland of scattered stone, and then to Eldanwarasse Flower Forest. Farcarninon’s domain had become Wild Lands, Gunedwaen said, and were occupied by outlaws and sellswords, but those would avoid the Flower Forests. To feed them and keep them, Vieliessar had scavenged among the ruins of burnt-out steadings for things abandoned or overlooked when their people had been stolen, and the home she made for them was comfortable enough.

  During the day she toiled at Gunedwaen’s direction: chopping wood, setting snares, and toughening a body which had been accustomed to the soft living of the Sanctuary of the Star. Each night, Vieliessar would sit with Gunedwaen over gan or xaique, absorbing his lessons on strategy, on the disposition of troops, of acceptable losses, and of tactics. She had read of wars and battles in Arevethmonion’s scrolls—now she heard tales of war from one who had fought them.