When Vieliessar had come upon mention of Farcarinon in such accounts, she had read them closely, for none of Farcarinon had survived to write their own versions. It did not matter that Farcarinon’s Lightborn had survived her fall: they had taken oaths to other Houses. But from Arevethmonion’s scrolls, she had pieced together the tale no one was alive to tell.
Serenthon Farcarinon’s ambitious weaving had begun even as War Prince Hiathuint, his father, lay upon his deathbed. Nearly a full score of decades had passed before its true shape could be discerned, a gossamer net of alliance, promise, and dream that tangled all the Houses of the West, great and less, in its strands.
Farcarinon’s first and staunchest ally had been Caerthalien. Aramenthiali and Telthorelandor stood apart, Cirandeiron bent this way and that like a young tree in a storm, first yielding to Serenthon’s wooing, next recollecting her ancient dignity.
When Caerthalien betrayed Farcarinon and allied with Aramenthiali and Telthorelandor—and Cirandeiron rushed to join them—many of Farcarinon’s allies fled. Others held fast until battle was inevitable, then sued for terms of surrender. Still others had stood fast until the day of the battle itself. Ivrithir had stood with Farcarinon until the morning of the battle, and no one could now say whether that was because Atholfol Ivrithir had been loyal until the last hope was gone, or merely wished to time his betrayal to the moment it would do Farcarinon the greatest harm. Nor did Vieliessar care. She had learned the lesson her father had not lived to learn. By the time her army took the field, she would have rendered it impossible for them to betray her.
* * *
The forest grew, thick and old, all across the border. It would have been impossible to tell where one domain ended and the next began save for the marker stone in the clearing, bespelled with Silverlight so that it glowed softly in the twilight gloom beneath the trees. As Vieliessar approached it, she saw a lone rider moving through the trees to meet her.
So far all goes in accordance with my desire.…
Atholfol Ivrithir was more than two-thirds through his allotted span of years, and he had held Ivrithir for most of that time, for a War Prince’s heir often came to rule early in life. His youngest child, Heir-Princess Caragond, could expect to burn her father’s bones and take his sword no more than three centuries hence—and far less, were Atholfol unlucky.
“Well met, Oronviel,” he said, swinging down from the back of his destrier. “I confess, I did not think you would come.”
“Neither did my household,” she answered, vaulting from Sorodiarn’s back. “Or, rather, they wished I would not.”
Atholfol smiled thinly. “Yet here we both are. You wish me to void the treaty I have sworn with Caerthalien in order to ally with Oronviel as I once did with Farcarinon. I ask you this: where is Ivrithir’s advantage in doing so?”
“If you wish an end to pointless war, your advantage is great. I shall be High King whether you aid me or no, yet I ask your help.”
“What help can I give?” Atholfol answered mockingly, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of harmlessness. “Ivrithir is small and poor—the indemnities I have paid to Caerthalien since the day Farcarinon fell have seen to that.”
“I do not have the patience for this,” Vieliessar answered, her voice edged. “You are inclined to this alliance, or you would not be here. What I want from Ivrithir is your army—all of it. Supplies, mounts, your Lightborn, your pledge to support Oronviel in all things, passage across your borders for my people, and all those brigands taken in your lands to be turned over to Oronviel for my justice.”
There was a moment of silence. “Perhaps I should name you my heir and vow my lands to you at once?” Atholfol asked. “I still see no advantage to Ivrithir in any of this.”
“You will no longer have to tithe Caerthalien a tenth-part of your harvests and your cattle,” Vieliessar said in a voice of mock-innocence, and Atholfol laughed.
“Hardly sufficient! When your father came wooing me, he promised me greater lands, a share of the wealth of those Houses we cast down, and a place upon his council.”
“And I will not,” Vieliessar answered. “For it was such bargains that destroyed him. I promise you three things, Atholfol Ivrithir: an end to the ceaseless warfare between House and House, a justice that runs the same for all, whether of High House or Low—and that you will not have to face my army in battle.”
“Every child looks to the future with such jeweled hopes, Lord Vieliessar. My Caragond is just the same. She swears that when she is War Prince, she will not be taken in clientage by Caerthalien, that she will take back the lands we have been forced to cede, that she will not give up her children as hostages. I said much the same, when I was her age. Such pretty dreams wither at the first touch of a swordblade.”
“And the time I dreamt the dreams of a child is long past, Lord Atholfol. We have lived a score of generations in exile, at war among ourselves, for the inability to agree on who should have the Unicorn Throne after Amrethion and Pelashia. In the west, the Beastlings seek to drive us into the sea. The south is bordered by impassable desert, the north, by mountains so high and cold that nothing can live there. The eastern lands are more embattled than the west, settled only because the alternative was extinction.” She stopped, studying him in silence for a long moment. “They speak of you as one who rejoices in war for the sport it offers. I ask you: where is the sport in the slaughter of helpless innocents? You took no new wife after Ninianael’s death. Will you see Caragond also face the day when she must sue Caerthalien, or Aramenthiali, or Cirandeiron, to receive her consort’s bones for burning?”
“When that day comes—if it does—I shall be dead long since,” Atholfol said harshly. “This is a strange wooing, Lord Vieliessar, accompanied as it is by neither gifts nor threats.”
“I do offer you a gift. I offer truth,” Vieliessar answered.
This time Atholfol roared with laughter, until he had to clutch at the cantle of his destrier’s saddle to steady himself. The animal craned its head around to regard him, ears flicking with curiosity.
“By the Hunt!” he said, when he had gained control of his mirth. “I had forgotten you were raised a Green Robe! I cannot eat truth or ride it—what use is it to me?”
Vieliessar had watched the display in silence, knowing it was at least partly an act for her benefit. “Truth is a weapon, Lord Atholfol. I offer you more truth—as a gift. The Free Companies were hunted out of Farcarinon. Such scraps as remain have turned to brigandage. Those outlaws who would once have joined Free Companies and been kept to discipline now have no place to offer their services save to bandits. Nor can Ivrithir, or Oronviel, or any other Less House hire the services of that which does not exist. But that is not the truth I offer—it is a poor thing, and you must know it yourself. What I offer is this: consider the alliance that made it possible.
“A century and more ago Farcarinon was erased and no retribution followed. My present ambitions are known. The Twelve will move to erase Oronviel next. Suppose they succeeded—though I say to you they will not. You know as well as I that no dog’s appetite is slaked by one meal. The High Houses would learn that they might expand their lands at the expense of those who cannot stand against them. Not this year. Not even while you yet live. But the day would come when Ivrithir, too, was erased, or forced to flee eastward to the Grand Windsward in hopes of establishing a domain there with what scraps it had retained in its flight.”
“You will not terrify me with fearful nursery tales, Lord Vieliessar,” Atholfol scoffed.
“How should I, when I have said you will not live to see the day? But once there were a Hundred Houses, and each War Prince possessed an equal claim to the Unicorn Throne. That is why we fight, you know,” she added kindly. “Then the Grand Alliance did the unthinkable and now there are only Ninety-and-Nine. With Oronviel’s erasure there would be Ninety-and-Eight. Do you think it would not occur to the High Houses that by eliminating the Less Houses they can claim wealth,
armies, and land—and eliminate rivals for the High Kingship?”
Plainly Atholfol did not like what he heard, but he was too stubborn to admit it. “Less Houses have risen up before—what care I if fifty Lines are erased, if Ivrithir is not? You ask for an alliance and offer nothing but dreams and promises. Think you I do not know Oronviel’s muster to the last maiden knight? You do not have sufficient forces to take Ivrithir in the field, let alone a Great House.”
Vieliessar smiled. “Do you think you know the full force I can summon to my call? I tell you this as a further gift, since you must be wooed as if you are a blushing child. I will take all who will swear fealty to me—the raiders who harry your borders, the craftworkers who flee your harsh justice, the Landbonds you tithe into starvation. I shall forge them into a weapon. And I shall take up that weapon, and win.”
“Oronviel cannot stand against the Twelve,” Atholfol said flatly.
“You speak of the Twelve in alliance and call me a dreamer of storysinger’s dreams?” Vieliessar mocked. “Caerthalien will come to slay me and all who swore to me. They will bring with them Princess Nanduil of Oronviel, who has been hostage at their court since before she cut her first teeth, and her they will make War Prince. That is their plan, at least. It will not work.”
“Why not?” Atholfol asked. He seemed torn between curiosity and disbelief.
“You have not agreed to an alliance,” Vieliessar answered.
“You offer a storysinger’s tale of peace and justice, but conjure Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor as you will, what you truly offer is death.”
“Is it?” Vieliessar asked. “Perhaps it seems so to you. Tell me, Lord Atholfol, what does an army need in order to fight?”
“Knights, horses, supply trains, Lightborn—” Atholfol began.
Vieliessar silenced him with a gesture. “No. They need to believe they can win. And to want the victory.
“When you ride to battle, your Landbonds pray you will not fight across their fields. Your craftworkers pray you will not demand the impossible and punish them when they cannot achieve it. Your komentai’a pray they will find favor in your eyes when the time comes for their ransom to be paid. Your Lightborn pray their shields will hold, and their strength will be great enough to Heal the bodies you ruin for a season’s entertainment.” She gazed at him for a long moment; the only sound was the wind rustling through the branches above them. “When I ride to battle, it will not be for sport. And no soul I hold within my hand shall be left to the mercy of my enemies.”
“You mean to arm your Landbonds,” Atholfol said slowly. “They will not fight for you. And even if they would, the Code of Battle—”
“—is a toy. I set my toys aside long ago. I will arm my Landbonds, and my Landholders, and my craftworkers. They will fight for me. All in the Fortunate Lands whom you in your wastrel lives have cast aside will fight for me, for I will offer them justice.”
“An army of rabble and outlaws,” Atholfol said, but he sounded uncertain for the first time. “They will never prevail against trained knights.”
“Come against us and see. Though if you join us, you will probably get a better view,” she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
“I … believe I shall,” Atholfol said slowly. “If only to see that haughty pup Runacarendalur’s face when he realizes he is to take the field against hayforks and blacksmith’s hammers.” He let out a deep breath, as if he had been holding it for much longer than they’d stood here. “Very well. Alliance. Safe passage across my borders; my army to call. I am not certain I can promise the brigands, though. My komentai’a are used to executing them as they find them.”
“No matter,” Vieliessar answered lightly. “Send your knights to me and I will instruct them properly. And so that your lands do not lie undefended, I shall send my army to you, to keep your borders and bring me your outlaws.”
“You truly mean to do this,” Atholfol said, as if only now realizing it.
“I do,” Vieliessar answered.
“Very well. We have no Lightborn here, but once they were not needed for the swearing of oaths.” He drew the dagger from his belt and pulled off his heavy leather hunting gloves. Holding the blade steady, he scored a long even gash across the palm of his hand, then held the blade out to her.
The kiss of the steel against her skin was first cold, then burning. She held out her hand, and he clasped it.
“Vieliessar Oronviel, I renounce my claim upon the Unicorn Throne and swear that while I yet draw breath I shall do all that lies within my power to deliver it into your hand,” Atholfol said.
“Atholfol Ivrithir, I take your oath, and for this pledge of loyalty I swear I will not allow you to lie unransomed in the halls of my enemies, nor languish a prisoner in their dungeons, nor permit your body to be dishonored in death.”
They stood a moment longer, hands clasped, then Atholfol let go and stepped back. “I suppose I should go and tell Bedreithir Warlord she will not be spending the winter beneath the comfort of her own roof. You may expect the first of my levies within the sennight.”
“I shall leave them escort at Torchwood,” she answered. “You are welcome to come yourself, of course,” she added, knowing the offer would not be accepted.
“I think it will be more entertaining to keep Bolecthindial in suspense some while longer. I believe he wishes to try Lady Dendinirchiel’s patience next summer, and does not wish Lord Manderechiel to take overmuch notice when he moves his army across Farcarinon to reach Ullilion, for he bid me raid against Aramenthiali when War Season comes. But I am certain there will be many reasons I cannot.”
“Or it may be that you will do more than raid against Aramenthiali once a few more moonturns have passed,” Vieliessar answered, gravely pleased. “I give you good fortune, Ivrithir.”
“And to you the same, Oronviel. And may the Starry Hunt watch over us both,” Atholfol answered. He turned away then, leading his destrier back into Ivrithir. Vieliessar watched after him for a few moments before mounting Sorodiarn and riding back to where she had left Aradreleg.
* * *
Before Rade Moon was ended, Sunalanthaid Lightbrother came from the Sanctuary of the Star to demand that Oronviel surrender Vieliessar Lightsister to its justice. He was already out of temper when he reached the castel, for he had been met—before he was many miles past the border—by a troop of Oronviel knights. Despite Rithdeliel’s pessimism—and Lady Nothrediel’s declarations that the thing could not be done—the majority of Oronviel’s knights were happy to have an easing of winter’s long sennights of boredom. Hunting was their main pastime in winter, and they quickly found there was good sport to be had in hunting outlaws.
With Lightborn traveling with every troop of knights—just as Vieliessar had promised—Vieliessar could be certain of immediate information from every corner of Oronviel. She was aware of Sunalanthaid’s coming a full sennight before he arrived, and used that time to prepare to receive him. For the first time in her life she wore the elaborate finery of a noble lady: the layers of underskirts of stiffened silk, the gilded slippers, the heavy jeweled belt riding low upon her hips, the rings—including the signet of Oronviel—and the heavy bracelets. Her hair, once shorn and worn unadorned to show her status as a Mage, was still too short to braid properly, so she wore it swept back from her temples. A pair of heavy carven combs held it in place; the combs were sewn to a long length of soft, heavy silk that flowed over her shoulders and coiled about her throat.
Not one thread of any of her garments was green.
She chose to receive Sunalanthaid in her private rooms instead of the Great Hall. To do so would emphasize her status as War Prince: Hamphuliadiel had sent Sunalanthaid because he wished to display his authority over her. She had refused requests from Thoromarth, Gunedwaen, and Rithdeliel to be present: she would not receive Sunalanthaid as if he were an emissary from another House. Only Aradreleg Lightsister was present—more proof that Vieliessar feared nothing f
rom the Sanctuary.
She had dressed her private chamber as carefully as she had dressed her body: it held her chair of rank and no other place to sit. The sideboard held wine instead of a tea brazier, and the tapestries upon the walls depicted great feats of Oronviel’s past. Beside her chair stood a table littered with scrolls and parchments—nothing Sunalanthaid could not be allowed to see, and all underscoring the truth she wished him to bear witness to: she was not Vieliessar Lightsister, but War Prince Vieliessar Oronviel.
“Lightbrother,” she said, as one of her castel guard opened the door to usher in her guest, “I trust you had a safe journey?” She stroked Striker’s long head; it was a tiny clemency from a future grown tangled and dark that the companion of Gunedwaen’s long exile had survived to enjoy a pampered old age. She watched as confusion played across Sunalanthaid’s face: he wished to argue with her—with the very fact of her—but could not decide how to begin.
It is a pity Hamphuliadiel did not send a messenger with more cleverness. Perhaps he could not find someone who was both clever and loyal.
“I am here to command your return to the Sanctuary of the Star,” Sunalanthaid said at last.
“No,” Vieliessar answered. “May I offer you a night’s rest beneath my roof before you begin your return journey? Or will you wish to leave at once?”
Sunalanthaid gaped at her for a moment. Those with power—even the reflected power of the Astromancer’s lackey—became accustomed to agreement and obedience where they had earned neither. “You can’t say that!” he finally managed to sputter.
Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) Page 24