Crown of Vengeance dpt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Darkness,” Amrethion said. “Darkness. I have done—I will do—all I can. My queen’s power binds the coming ages in chains of prophecy. These words will be a beacon of Magery that gains power with the passing of centuries, spirit, until at last you are summoned forth.”

  “You’re afraid of it,” Vieliessar said, in a voice that trembled with fury. “Whatever it is—whatever you say I must face—you’re so afraid of it you want to hide behind cryptic poetry and hope—hope!—that I can do what you cannot.”

  “I do hope,” Amrethion answered. “I—we—hope we have made the right choices.” He gazed into her eyes, and there was no hint of apology in his expression. “If Pelashia named Darkness to me—if I remembered this moment out of time and acted upon my knowledge—the alfaljodthi would be destroyed. And so she remains silent. And you have long years in which to grow strong. You will understand when you confront Darkness.”

  She took a step forward—unwilling to listen to his arguments, unwilling to think they might hold truth—but as she did so, the beautiful room with its strange delicate furniture, its king who had never worn armor nor held a sword, seemed to dwindle in every direction at once. As she fell from dreaming into true sleep, she had the strange sourceless insight that often accompanied dreams. She saw herself for an instant as Amrethion would have seen her: a barbarian coarsened by generations of war, born out of violence and murder and carrying them with her into whatever future she could create.

  She thrashed herself into wakefulness, gasping for breath. For a moment she could not remember why grief was a cold and terrible weight in her throat.

  Then she remembered her vision of Amrethion, and wept.

  What am I to do? What am I to do?

  * * *

  A fortnight later, the weather turned soft, and spring plowing began at Rosemoss Farm. The first caravan of the season passed through the Flower Forest on the way to the Sanctuary of the Star.

  It was time to return.

  Her steps were slow with reluctance. She would be returning to live beneath the roof of her enemy, just as she had in childhood—but she had not known Caerthalien was her enemy until the moment she left it. She meant to go before Hamphuliadiel in the rags and dirt of her banishment, for they would give her the semblance of humility and penitence he required. It would be a hard thing to endure, but she had done harder. Perhaps—with enough time—she might win his approval. His help. She could not imagine herself as the agent of the Prophecy, destroying the Fortunate Lands and all who lived within its bounds. She would die first.

  As she stepped onto the path that led through Arevethmonion, she heard the jingle of harness in the distance and the earth beneath her feet vibrated to the slow thud of draft oxen’s feet. She stopped and waited.

  “I greet you in the name of the Sanctuary of the Star, Prince Anarolodh,” she said.

  It had been a simple matter to cast True Speech to Hear the lead rider’s name, and she had not needed it to know his house or rank, for he wore the scarlet and sable of Gerchiliael, with the wheat-sheaf of lesser cadency below the crossed swords of its device.

  Anarolodh inclined his head. “Lightsister,” he said. “In the name of Dondialoch Gerchiliael, I thank you for the Sanctuary’s care of us. Will you ride?” he asked.

  “I will walk,” she answered, and took her place at his side. He touched his spurs to his palfrey’s flanks, and the procession moved slowly forward once again. If Prince Anarolodh found her disheveled condition odd, the thought of it did not trouble the surface of his mind.

  Dilvalos Lightsister joined them half a candlemark later. She had not been at the Sanctuary when Vieliessar had been banished, so the Caerthalien Candidates must have been the first along this road this season. She gave Vieliessar a startled look—clearly she knew of the banishment—but said merely: “There is a great disarray before you, for everyone seems to have set forth the moment the roads were dry. Caerthalien arrived at yesterday’s dawn, and before its wagons were half unloaded, Cirandeiron and Telthorelandor came as well. We shall have all the Seven here together, for Mangiralas and Rolumienion are expected today, and Inglethendragir and Ullilion tomorrow.”

  And Hamphuliadiel will be much occupied with their envoys, for all but Ullilion are High Houses, Vieliessar thought. “It will be much work for Mistress Hamonglachele to care for them all,” she answered, keeping her voice low so that Anarolodh did not hear two Lightborn speaking of such homely things.

  Dilvalos frowned. “That is—” she began, and stopped, as if she had been lured into speaking of things she must not.

  * * *

  Pavilions were spread out all across the fields surrounding the Sanctuary. Vieliessar let Dilvalos lead Prince Anarolodh and the new Candidates into the Sanctuary antechamber, while she went with the wagons into the courtyard as if this were her assigned task. The stableyard was chaotic, for Radanding Stablemaster’s staff had been sharply winnowed as Candidates rejoined their Houses or passed on to the Postulancy, and there was another wagon train already here, bearing a banner in the violet and silver of Inglethendragir.

  Inglethendragir had risen from Low to High upon Farcarinon’s bones.

  “Mistress Morgaenel greets—” A boy in the grey livery of the Sanctuary servants came rushing up to the wagons and stopped, his eyes going wide with consternation at his inability to identify the device before him.

  “Greets Gerchiliael and bids them welcome,” Vieliessar prompted gently. She kept her face smooth, but she was puzzled. Mistress Morgaenel’s place was the kitchens, not the guesthouse.

  “—and says I am to show you where you may set your pavilions, for the guesthouse is full.”

  “Are we to wallow in mud as if we were Windsward rabble?” Komen Thalien demanded. She was the leader of Prince Anarolodh’s Twelve. “Make room—or shall I do it for you?”

  “Komen Thalien, it is our great sorrow that we have so little space for guests,” Vieliessar said quickly. “But Inglethendragir will bear you company.” She gestured toward the field, hidden now by the buildings of the outer courtyard. Her Green Robe might be stained and tattered, but it still marked her as Lightborn: at last Komen Thalien nodded.

  “Very well, brat. I will look at your mudhole.”

  The boy hurried off and Komen Thalien followed. Now Radanding Stablemaster approached, with two of his assistants in tow. He was as shocked to see Vieliessar as Dilvalos Lightsister had been—but his gaze held something more than mere surprise.

  Grief.

  And warning.

  “You are needed in the guesthouse, Lightsister,” he said brusquely, before turning to walk quickly down the line of wagons to see what must be unloaded.

  If Hamphuliadiel did not know already that she was here, he would within a quartermark, and to tarry would only give him new fuel for his discontent.

  But only a fool disregarded a warning given by a friend.

  * * *

  The guesthouse was an odd building—a manor house wing with no manor attached. It was long and narrow, set behind the stables and across a broad courtyard paved with smooth river stones. Its ground floor held a bathhouse, a refectory, the workroom of Mistress Guesthouse, and a storage room for those things used in the guesthouse alone—blankets and linens, perfumes for the bath, and wines and strong cordials. On its second floor lay the sleeping chambers. Depending upon the demands of its guests, it could accommodate up to sixteen visitors, but the interior walls were designed to fold back to create larger rooms, and if Caerthalien and Cirandeiron were both in occupancy, their princes would both insist on great state. Battle might be forbidden upon the Sanctuary grounds, but there were other ways of challenging a rival than with a swordblade.

  In all her years at the Sanctuary, Vieliessar had never crossed the courtyard to the guesthouse, for it lay beyond the bounds where her life was sacrosanct. Now she hurried past the refectory, where loud talk and laughter proclaimed the guests at their morning meal, and closeted herself quickly in Hamo
nglachele’s workroom, sliding the door closed behind her.

  It had much the look of Maeredhiel’s workroom in the Sanctuary—the same litter of scrolls and wax tablets upon the broad table, the same low stool. On the wall behind the worktable, instead of a collection of keys, stood a slateboard upon which was painted the plan of the sleeping chambers. Within each square was a cryptic notation in chalk, saying who occupied each one. Above the worktable itself hung a suspended grid of sixteen silver bells, each engraved with the design of the flower for which each guesthouse chamber was named.

  Vieliessar seated herself upon the stool, wondering how long she would have to wait and more conscious than ever of her unkempt appearance. Her feet were bare, and they and her hands were callused with moonturns of hard work. Her hair was longer than it should be, and her robe, though clean, was ragged and stained.

  She had barely finished her catalogue of the chamber and her person when the door slid back. Vieliessar tensed, but it was Morgaenel who entered. She slid the door quickly shut behind her, and latched it.

  “Praise Pelashia! You’re alive!” Morgaenel gasped. “The winter was so hard!”

  “I came as Radanding meant I should, but I know not why. ’Ilthel, why are you here? Where is ’Chele?”

  “She is now Mistress of Servants,” Morgaenel said softly. “Maeredhiel has gone to the Vale of Celenthodiel. It was the lung-fever. She took ill just after Midwinter. Hamphuliadiel even sent Momioniarch Lightsister to attend her. No one thought it was serious—even Momioniarch said it might be repaired better by rest than by a Healing. When ’Chele went to look in on her one morning … it was too late for Healing.”

  “May she find happiness in the Vale of Celenthodiel,” Vieliessar said quietly. If the spirit truly survived as more than a hungry ghost, Vieliessar prayed Maeredhiel and Aradrothiach would find each other and at last complete their Bond.

  This was Hamphuliadiel’s work. Vieliessar knew it beyond doubt. He’d worked to erase all trace of Celelioniel’s scholarship from the land … but there had been one who had been Celelioniel’s confidante. Who had been present upon the night of Vieliessar’s birth.

  Maeredhiel.

  If she had thought— If she had known what Hamphuliadiel would do—

  “I suppose she did not think it was more than a cough that could be banished with time and rest,” Vieliessar answered steadily.

  “I am sure you are right,” Morgaenel answered. “What else could it have been?”

  * * *

  Go. Go now before you lose your courage.

  It was deep night on the day she had returned to the Shrine.

  She had not gone before Hamphuliadiel.

  She had thought his enmity was a thing that fell upon her alone, a thing that might be reasoned with. Now she knew it was not. Maeredhiel had died of it. Anyone might be next.

  Of a surety, Hamphuliadiel’s next attempt upon her would be something more certain than a winter’s banishment. She’d already placed her friends in danger enough by giving them the secret of her return to hold. I shall never again offer up hostages to a madman’s will, she vowed grimly.

  She wore a heavy cloak, boots, and the grey tunic and trousers of a Candidate. Over her shoulder was slung a leather bag holding knife, waterskin, bread, and cheese, gifts of Morgaenel. It had been a risk to involve her even that much, but Vieliessar had little choice. She could Shield herself in the guesthouse workroom and so escape discovery, but to move about the Sanctuary would guarantee exposure. Even if Hamphuliadiel discovered she had returned and departed again, it would probably not occur to him to question the Sanctuary servants.

  And even if he did …

  Vieliessar was Lightborn. Servants did not question orders the Lightborn gave. Indeed, Morgaenel had asked no questions.

  Go now, Vieliessar told herself.

  She eased open the door of the workroom. The guesthouse was dark and silent. She crossed the floor on silent feet and eased open the outer door. Across the courtyard, the Sanctuary of the Star was dark and quiet. The only light came from the lanterns hung upon its gate.

  She closed the door behind her and walked into Arevethmonion.

  She did not look back.

  * * *

  He had not expected to end his days in a forest cottage on Caerthalien land. If—by the grace of the Silver Hooves—he had lived into old age, Gunedwaen had expected a place of honor at his lord’s table, quiet days spent imparting the lore of his long life to the children who would grow to become komen—the strong defense of his noble house.

  Of Farcarinon.

  The shutter rattled. It was autumn, and old bones and old injuries ached in the cold. Striker raised her head, gazing about the room for a moment before returning to sleep. The hikuliasa was good company, though Gunedwaen had never decided what purpose had lain in Bolecthindial’s mind when he had presented the animal as a gift. Perhaps to mock Gunedwaen’s own state, for the beast had been lamed and half wild.

  Each winter Gunedwaen thought of letting his fire die, of walking out into the snow and laying his bones down for the last time. Freezing was said to be a gentle death, far more so than the deaths he had dealt. And each year he told himself: Next year. Not this year. Next year. Perhaps it was curiosity that kept him living. Perhaps it was the wish to fight one last battle. The Silver Hooves would not take him if he died peacefully, and he had no taste for wandering as a homeless ghost till the stars grew dark.

  The shutter rattled again,

  “You should show yourself,” Gunedwaen said calmly. “If you have come to kill me, I must say you are some years too late.”

  “You cannot have known I was here,” a voice said.

  “Had I not learned the skill to see the unseen, I would have perished long since,” Gunedwaen answered. He had not been truly certain of her presence until she spoke. Striker raised her head from her paws again, gazing curiously in the direction of the voice. She seemed puzzled. “I would have you show yourself, stranger.”

  “Are you truly so eager to die?” the voice asked.

  “Are you truly so dangerous?” Gunedwaen answered.

  There was a moment of silence, then: “Once I would have said I wished no harm to any. I would know who your fealty is pledged to, old man.”

  “What Landbond pledges to any lord but the next harvest?” Gunedwaen answered mockingly.

  There was a snort of contempt from behind him. Striker made a soft sound in her throat.

  “I have known Landbonds in plenty, old man. You are not one.”

  “You are well traveled for one of the Night Brotherhood. If not well informed,” Gunedwaen observed.

  “Well informed enough to know I have never seen one of the Children of Night, nor have you. I come to ask your House and your fealty. I already know your name.”

  “If you know my name, you know all there is to know,” Gunedwaen answered. With laborious care, he shifted in his seat enough so he could turn his head to see the doorway.

  He saw no one there.

  Suddenly there was a ripple in the air, and where there had been nothingness stood a figure in a grey cloak, its deep hood doing as much to conceal her face as her spell had done. Striker got to her feet, uttering a low bark of warning. The woman pushed back the hood of her cloak and Gunedwaen saw what he’d expected to see: the shorn hair of one of the Lightborn.

  “I do not know who you claim as your lord, for all that you live as Caerthalien’s supplicant,” the Lightborn said stubbornly.

  “A dead house and a failed cause,” Gunedwaen said, sighing. “Come, Lightsister, tell me your purpose here.” He turned back to gaze into the fire. Her footsteps were soft as she crossed the room to the woodpile, chose a length of wood, and added it to the coals.

  “I seek one named Gunedwaen, once Swordmaster to War Prince Serenthon Farcarinon. I have need of him.”

  The rekindled fire cast its amber light on her face. He had never seen her before. But he knew her.

  “L
ady Nataranweiya’s child lived,” he said slowly.

  “Yes,” the woman answered. “Nataranweiya fled to the Sanctuary of the Star. There I was born. There I returned.”

  “Then return there again and live still,” Gunedwaen said. “Farcarinon is gone, its children scattered to the seven winds. You cannot claim your father’s house from its ashes.”

  “It took me long to find you,” she said, deflecting his words. “I have come to learn all you can teach me of knighthood and war.”

  Deep in the embers of what he once was, Gunedwaen felt a stirring of old instincts. He remembered the terrible day when Serenthon had received word of Caerthalien’s betrayal. Gunedwaen had begged him to sue for terms, knowing Farcarinon could not stand alone against a High House alliance, and for a moment he had seen Serenthon hesitate, about to agree. Then he had looked upon his lady, already great with child, and his face had grown cold and resolute. He shook his head, and spoke the words that sealed their fates.

  “I shall not surrender all that I love to Darkness.”

  Gunedwaen had followed his liege-lord to the battlefield, and saw him fall, and was struck down in his turn. He would have—should have—died there beside him, but his apprentices had carried him from the field and into hiding. Gunedwaen remembered standing in Caerthalien’s great hall, weak from fever, his garments torn and stained with the sennights of illness, injuries, hiding. He remembered the moment Ivrulion Light-Prince had bespelled him so he could never be whole again, how the fever for revenge had burned hotter than the wound-sickness that had cost him his arm and the use of his leg, how in that moment all his hopes of vengeance were shattered.

  And he laughed. “My lord, are you disordered in your mind? And even if you are mad, what teaching do you think you can gain from a lame, one-armed man? Abandon your thoughts of revenge, I beg you.”