“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.
“Within the walls of my own keep, I can say what I wish,” she answered. “I am War Prince of Oronviel by right of challenge.”
“You are not,” Sunalanthaid said, sounding plaintive. He turned toward Aradreleg. “She is a fugitive from the Sanctuary. Hamphuliadiel demands her return. At once!”
“Then let the Astromancer send his vast armies to take her,” Aradreleg said, glancing toward Vieliessar for consent before she spoke. “But first, let him say why he seeks to claim a prince of the Hundred Houses.”
“She has broken the Covenant. Her Light is forfeit,” Sunalanthaid said at last.
“Bring your witnesses to that charge, Sunalanthaid of Haldil, as I will answer them,” Vieliessar replied. Naming his House instead of using his title was rudeness, but she meant it to serve as a reminder she was no longer the Sanctuary’s servant—in any fashion. “Farcarinon was taken from me before my birth, and everyone thought I would be content to be so disparaged. But Oronviel is now mine, and I will rule over it as did Ternas Lightbrother over House Celebros in the days of Timirmar Astromancer.”
For a moment, she thought Sunalanthaid might ask her if she was telling the truth. Then his mouth firmed into a hard line. “You face serious accusations, Lightborn,” he repeated.
Vieliessar leaned forward in her chair. “Say this to Hamphuliadiel: I know both law and custom better than he. Say also that if I had taken Oronviel by unnatural means, my Lightborn would have voided my domain, and they have not.”
“Eiron—” Sunalanthaid began.
“Would not pledge fealty to me,” Vieliessar interrupted. “For that cause I banished him and a handful of others. You have come here in error, Sunalanthaid Lightbrother. I am Vieliessar Lightsister no longer. Take that word to Hamphuliadiel Astromancer when you go—and while you are my guest, do not give me cause to seek recompense from Haldil for your actions. Now leave me. I grow tired of explaining to you what you should have learned in your Postulancy.”
Watching Sunalanthaid’s openmouthed confusion, she knew for truth what she had only suspected: he had come to Oronviel believing Hamphuliadiel’s demands would be met with ready capitulation from the nobles and Lightborn of Oronviel. Perhaps he had thought to find Thoromarth ruling on her behalf, or to find her a prisoner, or to find Oronviel in open rebellion against her rule.
He had not.
“I will— I will—”
“You are tired from your journey. I would not have you set forth in such a state. Aradreleg Lightsister will conduct you to the rooms I have prepared for you.”
Aradreleg stepped toward him, and Sunalanthaid hesitantly turned to accompany her. Vieliessar could feel his confusion clearly—she would not seek to know more, not while Sunalanthaid hoped to discover her using spells to rule—and she might have pitied him, were he not so blatantly her enemy.
“Yet there is one thing I must require of you first.” Both Lightborn stopped at the sound of Vieliessar’s voice. “I am War Prince of Oronviel. You will give me the courtesy of my rank, or your stay here will be exceedingly brief.”
For a moment she thought he would refuse. But the Sanctuary was far away, and Vieliessar looked nothing like the self-effacing Lightsister who had endured Hamphuliadiel’s rebukes and punishments for so very long.
“My lord— My lady— Lord Vieliessar—” Sunalanthaid stammered. “I— Yes.”
Vieliessar raised a hand in dismissal. She took up a scroll from the table beside her, pretending to study it until she heard the door close behind them.
* * *
Rallying the people to her with the truth—a kind of truth, anyway, for she did not expect peace immediately upon her accession to the Unicorn Throne—was only one part of her strategy. Another was to rule over the land as if it were already hers.
The Great Keeps of the War Princes stood in the center of the lands they claimed. It was only sensible: such a placement would put their greatest stronghold far from their disputed borders. Even if the changing fortunes of a House had moved its borders so its keep lay nearer to one border or another, the farther one went from the Great Keep, the less settled was the land and the smaller the farms. More of the land lay under great Flower Forests or simple woodlands, until on the borders of the domain one reached the watchtowers and border keeps. These were large and heavily fortified, held by great lords who were nearly princes themselves. They kept vast meisnes of komen, and when the enemy rode across a domain’s border, it was the lords of the border keeps who first rode out against them.
But the border lords did not ride out against anything but a troop of enemy knights. It was considered dishonorable to ride to battle in disguise, and so they would go in bright silks and gleaming armor. Their passage could be seen for a great distance.
The raiders who preyed upon the outlying farms had neither bright silks nor gleaming armor, and well knew the value of concealment.
From Rade to Frost, Vieliessar met with the lords of all of her border keeps. To all of them she gave new orders: to ride to the aid of the border farmsteads when they were attacked. Many of her border lords were indignant at these commands, for they considered the border steadings to be there for little reason other than to provide sport for raiding parties from either side of the border. Vieliessar had removed some lords from their appointments and made it clear to all who remained that there would be no raiding, no brigandage, no “sport” in Oronviel.
When the border lords saw that her army patrolled as well—and saw what diversion there was in hunting brigands—Oronviel became a place of peace, not of raids and night terrors, until the pennion of Oronviel, with its red otter on a white field, brought the Farmfolk of Araphant, Ivrithir, and Laeldor—and Caerthalien and Aramenthiali as well—running to their dooryards to greet the patrols; to offer cider, bread, or honeycomb; to ask for aid.
Rithdeliel had sworn her plan would never work. Vieliessar had known it would. The komen might be proud and arrogant, but they were not immune to the experience of being greeted by the countryfolk with unfeigned pleasure and honest warmth, rather than with cold suspicion and grudging cooperation.
By Frost Moon, the land Oronviel controlled was twice again what it had been in Harvest, for once her treaty was made with Ivrithir, Vieliessar’s knights rode its bounds just as they had ridden hers. Ivrithir’s knights were no more immune to the astonishing experience of being welcomed by the Farmfolk than their brothers and sisters of Oronviel had been, and word of the alliance had run ahead of them, so the people of the borders greeted the pennion bearing Ivrithir’s tawny bear with as much enthusiasm as they’d greeted the red otter.
* * *
Hearth Moon became Frost Moon, and each day that did not bring word of armies marching toward Oronviel’s borders seemed to Vieliessar like a reprieve. There was much to do to in order to turn the impossible to the improbable. Candlemark by candlemark she lived with the temptation to change her course to one that wouldn’t seem so much like madness. There was still time to compose a document explaining how she had discovered the meaning behind The Song of Amrethion—she still had the scrap of the scroll Celelioniel had written—to ask openly for the help of the Hundred Houses against the Darkness.
No one would believe her. No matter what she did, her fellow War Princes would seek for the hidden motive, the trap, the betrayal. And even if they did not, they would still squabble over who should be War King over the combined army of the Hundred Houses just as they now battled over who was to be High King.
There is no time for that. They will not listen to argument. Only to armies.
I
must have Mangiralas. Not for its destriers, but for its palfreys. If I can build an infantry, I must still get it to the battlefield. And Daroldan—not their neutrality this time, but War Prince Damulothir’s promise to support Oronviel. I will need him to demand aid of Caerthalien so she does not take the field against me before I am ready.
Mangiralas, Daroldan, Caerthalien, Ivrithir, Oronviel … a thousand threads from which she must weave her future.
Everyone’s future.
And so, with a thousand bad choices and no good ones before her, Vieliessar sent messengers to those Houses which had once supported her father’s bid to make himself High King, offering their War Princes safe passage and a Midwinter Truce if they would send representatives to Oronviel. Oronviel’s Midwinter Feast would be—must be—extraordinary, for Vieliessar must both display her power and take the next step toward what would inevitably seem as a revival of Serenthon’s royal ambitions. Worst of all, she could not count on any of the alliances she made this Snow Moon—if any—to stand one moment past the time Hamphuliadiel Astromancer made it known that she believed herself to be the Child of the Prophecy. If the War Princes hated the thought of a High King, they hated the thought of a mystical madwoman even more.
Celelioniel Astromancer had done Vieliessar no favors by her obsession with Amrethion’s Curse.
* * *
Though Midwinter was still sennights away, preparations for it were already under way. A feasting-hall crafted entirely of ice was taking form upon the meadow beyond Oronviel Castel. The kitchens were busy day and night. As each dish was finished, the last touches applied by Oronviel’s Master of Kitchens, it was cloaked in a Preservation Spell by a waiting Lightborn so that a sennight or a fortnight hence it could be brought to the feasting table as fresh and savory as if it had just been cooked. Unused chambers within the castel were aired and refurbished, temporary stables and paddocks erected, provision made for a full sennight of lavish spectacle.
It was a bit like going to war, Vieliessar thought. And in truth, this was the opening movement of her campaign, for Oronviel would keep Midwinter as if Vieliessar were already High King. In counterpoint to the lavish feasting of the nobles, she would feast the commons as well—and not upon the leavings of the great feasts, but upon bread and mutton and beer, given without stint.
Nor would her Lightborn Call the Light only upon the Fourth Night of the Festival, but upon all seven, turning away none who sought them out and taking none who refused them.
These things were new and strange enough that her ears had grown weary of hearing Gunedwaen, or Rithdeliel, or Thoromarth tell her why they must not be, and now she added one thing more: for the whole of the Festival, all within Oronviel, no matter their degree, had full right of woodland and lesser forest. They might gather what they chose, cut standing trees, and take game.
And take no hurt of it.
When I am High King, none shall starve and shiver in fear through the winter moonturns to enrich those who have no care for them.
But she was not High King yet.
* * *
Today she faced Komen Bethaerian in the circle. As with all the Great Keeps, a Challenge Circle had been set into the stone of the Great Hall when it was built: a ring of white granite set into the smooth, dark, Mage-forged slate. Here the knights of the War Prince’s household demonstrated their skill and settled quarrels. Here, too, a disgraced knight might regain lost honor and earn a place with the Starry Hunt by facing all challengers until death’s blood rinsed reputation clean once more.
Her own reputation among her knights was neither bad or good, but Vieliessar had not led them into battle for season after season. She must convince any who watched that she had set aside her Magery along with her Green Robe. And so Vieliessar met all who wished to do battle within the Great Hall’s circle, calling it sport to liven the dull days of winter.
Bethaerian was the commander of Vieliessar’s personal guard. It had taken Bethaerian sennights to challenge her, though she had watched the bouts from the beginning. She had put that time to good use, studying Vieliessar’s skills. Though Oronviel’s War Prince had disarmed Bethaerian quickly, when she slammed her shoulder against Bethaerian’s chestpiece to thrust her from the circle and end the bout, Bethaerian stepped into the blow, pulling Vieliessar against her, front to back. Neither of them could launch a further attack in that position, but Bethaerian had not lost.
“I yield,” Vieliessar said, laughter bubbling up beneath her words.
Bethaerian released her, stepping across the boundary of the Challenge Circle. Only when Vieliessar was pulling off her helm did she see Aradreleg awaiting her.
“My prince,” the Lightsister said, “a Lightborn envoy comes from Caerthalien.”
“Is he escorted?” she asked. Her people were smart and loyal, but no one in the Fortunate Lands—save, perhaps, the War Princes themselves—would go against the wishes of a Green Robe. If Ivrulion Light-Prince had refused escort …
“Indeed,” Aradreleg said, putting Vieliessar’s worry to rest. “Peryn Lightsister sends to say Komen Berlaindist brings the Lightbrother with all haste.”
It wasn’t customary for a Lightborn traveling as envoy of a War Prince to give his name, only his House, so neither Peryn nor Berlaindist would know it. “‘All haste’ is…?” Vieliessar prompted.
“A sennight, Komen Berlaindist promises, no more.”
“Then there is barely sufficient time to prepare to receive him,” Vieliessar answered. She had invited Caerthalien to attend her Winter Court, of course, but an envoy arriving a fortnight before the start of the Festival could mean only one thing: Caerthalien meant her to pledge fealty. Word of her ambition would already have reached Bolecthindial. The emissary from Caerthalien must be its attempt to overturn her plans.
They will send Ivrulion, of course. Who else? And Lightborn or no, he will speak among my guests with princely authority.…
But when Caerthalien’s Lightborn envoy walked into Oronviel’s Great Hall at last, it wasn’t Ivrulion.
“Thurion!” Vieliessar exclaimed, struggling to keep all the welcome she felt out of her voice.
“War Prince Vieliessar,” he answered, his voice steady. “War Prince Bolecthindial sends me to you, for Caerthalien has always stood friend to Oronviel.”
“Oronviel thanks Caerthalien for her gentle care of her neighbor. We rejoice in your visit to us and hope you will find all you seek.”
“I am certain I shall,” Thurion answered, bowing.
“I pray your visit will allow you to partake of our hospitality this Midwinter, as well.” She did not ask if he was Caerthalien’s envoy to her Midwinter Court, for that would reveal too much. This meeting was a formality, a show enacted for those watching. Later they would have the chance to speak privately.
* * *
“Caerthalien sends me to discover if you mean to keep to your own borders and honor the treaties Lord Bolecthindial held of War Prince Thoromarth,” Thurion said, the words bursting from his lips in a rush almost before the door had closed behind him. “Of course I’ll tell him whatever you like, but—that was Lord Gunedwaen of Farcarinon at table tonight, wasn’t it?”
The evening meal had been a long and lavish one, but it would be only prudent for any new lord of a small and embattled domain to wish to impress the emissaries of her large and powerful neighbors. Thurion had been seated upon her left hand, in the place of honor.
That he would see what he had seen was inevitable. But only one who still counted himself her friend would have broached the subject so openly.
Vieliessar waved him to a seat as she finished skimming the scroll she held—Gunedwaen’s sennightly analysis of the information he’d gleaned from her knights as well as from a number of Oronviel folk who had gone secretly where they would not have been welcomed openly.
Thurion flung himself into a low chair, kicking the hem of his robes out of the way with the negligent ease of long practice. “It was, wasn’t it? Th
e Gunedwaen?”
“Does it matter?” Vieliessar asked, setting the report aside. There was nothing new there. The War Princes were obviously waiting for Midwinter before declaring for or against Oronviel. At least openly.
Thurion sat upright so abruptly that Striker raised her elegant head. “Of course it matters! Vielle! He lost his arm years—decades ago! No Healer has ever—” He stopped abruptly, gazing at her with disbelief. “You knew. You knew what you’d done when you Healed him.”
She met his gaze squarely. This, her instincts said. This is more important than anything else we will say to one another about my plans and the lies he will tell his Caerthalien masters. “I knew I could do it before I began,” she answered simply. “It was hard, and painful, but it was not impossible.”
“It should have been,” Thurion answered quietly. His words were not a rebuke. They were uttered in tones of one who looked upon the impossible. “I know of no Healer who could have done it.”
“You know what hradan Celelioniel laid upon me at my birth,” Vieliessar answered.
“‘Death against Darkness, blood expunge blood, burn the stars and save a brand from the burning,’” Thurion quoted. It was the beginning of the passage about the destruction of the Hundred Houses. “Is that what you mean to do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “All I know is that I am the Child of the Prophecy, the Doom of the Hundred Houses. It took me so long to admit it that I do not know if there is enough time left.”
Thurion drew a deep, shaking breath, summoning calm, summoning reason. “You think you have deciphered Amrethion’s Prophecy,” he said, but once again Vieliessar shook her head.
“Celelioniel Astromancer deciphered it. It was why I was allowed to live. ‘When stars and clouds together point the way / And of a hundred deer one doe can no longer counted be’—Farcarinon’s destruction. Thurion, it does not matter whether I am the only one it could be, or simply the one Celelioniel chose. What matters is the rest of the Prophecy.”
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