Crown of Vengeance dpt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  She led her company to the left of Caerthalien’s center. Gunedwaen had often said a Swordmaster took the greatest hurts from his most unskilled students, simply because they did that which no training could predict. Exhaustion and desperation in the Caerthalien knights lent their attacks the same unpredictability: the blow against which one defended might go high, or low, or strike the knight beside one instead. Worse yet was the moment the back of the Caerthalien column—inspired by some masterful leader—began to swing to deosil, for if the column could turn, it might manage to bring forward a large enough force to block her line of retreat and encircle her force.

  But the battleground was hemmed in by those who were not lawful targets under the Code of Battle, and knights and destriers collided disastrously with servants and pages who had thought themselves safely on the sidelines of the field. The obvious thing for Caerthalien to do was retreat up the road—the knights might not care about the lives of their servants, but the confusion left them vulnerable to enemy attack. But Vieliessar heard no Caerthalien signal to retreat and regroup, and suddenly she realized that Caerthalien could not withdraw. She’d seen no Green Robes in the crowds at the edges of the column and that meant that if any Lightborn had been part of the retreat, they had been leading it, and were now behind the army. Even Lightborn could not outrun blood-maddened warhorses. If the Caerthalien knights broke and fled—if the rearward ranks retreated—the Lightborn would be trampled to death.

  She could not afford to care. Could not retreat, hoping Caerthalien would follow, and thus ensure the safety of those who might have been her friends, her comrades, her students. The purpose of war is to win, she told herself bleakly, and banished thoughts of the Lightborn from her mind.

  Then, as if Caerthalien was a river and a dam had burst, the knights facing Oronviel’s swords simply fell away. Vieliessar struck the foe before her hard enough to topple him from the saddle. His destrier reared up, menacing her with its forehooves, but her mount sprang backward with ease, for there was suddenly space through which to maneuver.

  She raised her bloodied sword, brandishing it in the direction of the enemy, and spurred Grillet in pursuit. The bay stallion danced along the road, springing into the air to vault fallen bodies, dodging around injured horses. Behind her, Vieliessar heard the call for the chase: follow, follow, follow. It was not a battle call, but a hunting call: there was never any need to chase a force of enemy knights on the field. She could hear the thunder of hooves; slowly the front rank of her knights drew level with her. Before them, Caerthalien fled as if it ran with the Starry Hunt Itself. They could not keep to such a bruising pace for long, but it would not matter. Vieliessar galloped her company after them until she judged they had covered several miles, then began to rein Grillet in. It was difficult to do, for he wanted to run, but she managed it at last, sending him onward at a slow trot until the company had reformed behind her.

  “We could have run them until their horses were blown!” one of her komen objected when they were moving at a slow walk.

  “Yes,” Vieliessar agreed. “But—did you see? They held their place during the battle for fear of overrunning those behind them: their Lightborn, it must be. And then they ran. So let us go back and find those Lightborn. Once they are in my care, we may harass Caerthalien as we wish.”

  “That is a good thought, Lord Vieliessar,” Bethaerian said, plainly relieved at her reason for abandoning the chase. “Let us seek them out.”

  When they retraced their steps, they reached a place where the dead had been moved aside, servant and knight piled together, and the road had been filled with the injured. The Lightborn moved among the wounded, offering Healing. Vieliessar counted no more than a dozen of them. A force the size of Caerthalien’s would have traveled with fifty Lightborn, perhaps more.

  “Who is senior among you?” Vieliessar called, reining in.

  By their reaction, the Lightborn had expected her to pass without stopping. There was a quick murmured colloquy between three of them, then one walked forward. “I am Pantaradet Lightsister,” she said.

  “You are not all the Lightborn that traveled with Runacarendalur’s army,” Vieliessar said.

  Pantaradet shook her head. “We are all who returned to aid the injured,” she said simply. “Lord Vieliessar, you were once one of us. Please. We must have food, shelter, a place where these injured may rest. They have done you no harm.”

  “Summon to you all the Lightborn who rode with Caerthalien,” Vieliessar answered. “Give yourselves into my care, and I will care for those you have Healed as well. All may come to me who were in Caerthalien’s service.”

  A look almost of awe broke over Pantaradet’s features. “It is true,” she said, as if the words were torn from her all unwilling. “I had heard— I did not believe—”

  “I shall be High King, Pantaradet Lightsister,” Vieliessar said. “And you will be my people. I would have you safe while I make war on those who would make war upon me.”

  Pantaradet nodded, and for a moment it seemed she might speak further. Whatever she thought of saying, she decided against it. She nodded again instead. “I will summon them, Lord Vieliessar. We are sixty in number.”

  It was a reasonable count of Lightborn Healers to accompany three thousand knights—especially if one did not intend to have any enemy wounded to Heal. Vieliessar sent Orannet and Janondiel back to her supply wagons to bring supplies for the Healers, then sent two hundred of her komen to follow the Caerthalien knights and keep them moving. She waited until the wagons had arrived and the wounded were loaded. Then, at last, she pursued Caerthalien once more.

  If only she had been able to take Runacarendalur of Caerthalien prisoner this morning, the day would have held nothing but joy.

  * * *

  After eight interminable days spent fleeing Oronviel, Runacarendalur was filthy and tired, and he ached. The four of them had been met at the border by a demi-taille of komen—Father’s personal guard—and a dozen Lightborn. With fresh mounts, they reached Alqualanya Flower Forest a few candlemarks later, and then Carangil and those Lightborn with Door to Call moved them between Alqualanya and Rimroheth in a heartbeat. It had all been accomplished with such speed that no messenger could have sent word before them, but as Runacarendalur and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel walked from the center of Rimroheth, they found a familiar figure waiting for them.

  “’Rulion,” Runacarendalur said in surprise. “Am I to be laid in irons? Or do you come to rejoice at our dear mother’s return? And mine, of course.”

  “You look like a Landbond,” his brother said flatly. “But I came to warn you, because Light knows your servants won’t.”

  “Warn us?” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel demanded. “Of what?”

  “Father … entertains,” Ivrulion said with heavy irony. “What news Runacarendalur sent of the battle disturbed him. And so we host Cirandeiron, and Aramenthiali, and Telthorelandor.”

  “What?” Runacarendalur and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel spoke almost in chorus. Runacarendalur could not have been more stunned if his brother had told him Vieliessar had conquered Caerthalien and was awaiting him here.

  “Their armies, or…?”

  Ladyholder Glorthiachiel glared at him murderously, and Runacarendalur fell silent.

  “Their War Princes,” Ivrulion said. “And you should be grateful for that, Rune, for the army—what you left of it—is still a fortnight from the border. It is the absence of their provisions, their servants, and our Lightborn that slows them, I suppose, though really, when you consider the matter, a smaller—”

  It took a moment for the sense of his brother’s words to penetrate. “But the servants— Our Lightborn—” Runacarendalur said, in shock.

  “Some of the servants—a few hundred—accompany them. None of our Lightborn.”

  “Oh, never mind that now! If Cirandeiron, Telthorelandor, and Aramenthiali are within our walls, why are we standing here talking?” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel demanded. “And w
e will enter by the siege gate, Ivrulion, for I will not permit our adventure in Oronviel to seem as if it were a disaster.”

  * * *

  For one War Prince to come to another’s domain meant either absolute trust between them—which was impossible—or a common goal so important that a temporary amnesty existed until that goal was met. Runacarendalur did not have to ask why Cirandeiron, Aramenthiali, and Telthorelandor had been sent for: the timing was too exact.

  Any thought he’d had—admittedly negligible—of telling anyone that he had discovered himself to be the destined Bondmate of Vieliessar of whatever-domain-she-claimed vanished. He suspected that revealing this would dramatically shorten his life, but loyalty to Caerthalien had made him at least consider it. But that had been when it would be a thing known only to Caerthalien. If Father was conspiring with other War Princes once more …

  Runacarendalur picked up the winecup on the tray a servant had brought to his room but set it down again. He’d been summoned to attend Father’s gathering as soon as he was washed and dressed. He’d need a clear head for that—he’d rather walk naked into an ice tiger’s den at Midwinter than deal with any of the Old Alliance. Or their consorts.

  He regarded himself in the mirror and thought he looked presentable enough. No one would think that for more than a sennight he’d been sleeping under bushes and eating food he wouldn’t throw to his hounds. I wonder how many Houses will remain of the ancient Hundred once the dust of battle has settled this time? he thought.

  He gave a last tug to his tunic and walked from his chambers.

  * * *

  The old records called the chamber directly above the Great Hall the Audience Chamber, but generations of War Princes had conducted all their duties in the Great Hall, before the sight of all, or in their private chambers, before the sight of none. Runacarendalur couldn’t remember the last time the Audience Chamber had actually been used. Just now it had been dressed as a rather luxurious receiving chamber.

  “—stromancer could have picked a more convenient time to enact this foolishness,” Runacarendalur heard as the servant opened the door. It was Lord Girelrian—War Prince Girelrian of Cirandeiron—who spoke. She was old enough to be her husband’s greatmother, for she had taken the throne early and ruled alone until the need to secure the Line caused her to make Irindandirion of Cirandeiron her Consort-Prince. Irindandirion was deadly upon the battlefield and fanatical about his clothes and jewels. He kept a dozen catamites and knew better than to involve himself in any matters of rule.

  “Oronviel’s timing in removing its Postulants from the Sanctuary is interesting,” War Prince Ivaloriel Telthorelandor said. “Either Hamphuliadiel plots with Oronviel, or Oronviel wishes us to think he does. Either way, we have sufficient cause to encourage the Astromancer to resign—whether the Vilya has … ah … fruited, or not.”

  It was said no one had ever seen Lord Ivaloriel angry, even when the tide of battle turned against him. His detachment on the field was matched only by his even-handedness in ruling his domain; the War Prince of Telthorelandor ruled without favorites or intimates—except Ladyholder Edheleorn, his Bondmate. Runacarendalur barely flinched at the thought of Bonding; the fact that three War Princes were being hosted by a fourth was too shocking.

  “Oh, but here is Runacarendalur!” An exquisitely dressed woman, all in green, left her husband’s side and swept over to where Runacarendalur stood. She placed a hand upon his chest and gazed up at him meltingly. “Why, you are even more handsome than you were when I saw you last. Soon you will eclipse your father in beauty and I shall be lost.”

  “Ladyholder Dormorothon,” Runacarendalur answered, his voice even. He didn’t miss the look of cold venom Lord Manderechiel directed at his lady’s back—and at him, for there were two things in the Fortunate Lands the War Prince of Aramenthiali hated above all others: his wife … and House Caerthalien.

  Dormorothon was Manderechiel’s second wife—his first marriage had been a love match, but Lady Ciamokene had died giving birth to Sedreret Heir-Prince, and Manderechiel had chosen to wed Dormorothon, for no Lightborn’s children would ever challenge the progeny of his beloved Ciamokene for the right to succeed him. Dormorothon had been plotting even then; she made sure to bind Sedreret to her with ties stronger than blood. And now the tapestry of power patterned by the threads of her weaving was in danger of being disastrously unraveled.

  “I see Mother is here before me. Have you yet had time to greet her properly?” Runacarendalur asked, doing his best to feign obliviousness. He walked with Dormorothon to where Ladyholder Glorthiachiel stood, Ivrulion beside her. Ivrulion nodded fractionally as Runacarendalur’s eyes met his: the chamber was Warded against any use of Magery. Ladyholder Dormorothon was not thought to possess the Lightborn Magery that would permit her to Hear the thoughts of others, but no one wanted to take any chances.

  It is fortunate that ’Rulion has not also Warded this chamber against lying, or it would burst into flames and kill us all, Runacarendalur thought, as Ladyholder Dormorothon and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel exchanged remarks about how delighted they were to see each other again, and how foolish it was for two Great Houses which should naturally be allies and the closest of friends to ever fight. Runacarendalur avoided glancing toward Ladyholder Dormorothon’s husband, for War Prince Manderechiel and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel had hated each other for centuries, and Aramenthiali would declare for Oronviel’s cause in an instant if Vieliessar would promise him the chance to torture to death every member of Caerthalien’s Line Direct.

  If not, of course, for his own overweening ambition.

  Four Great Houses. Four War Princes. And all wish to be High King—except, perhaps, for Telthorelandor, and there I am simply not sure what Lord Ivaloriel wants. I don’t think anyone is, except perhaps Ladyholder Edheleorn.

  Ivrulion’s presence at the meeting was reasonable enough. As Caerthalien’s Chief Lightborn, he was responsible for seeing that none of Lord Bolecthindial’s guests were poisoned or bespelled during their stay. Runacarendalur, however, was in attendance for no purpose other than to give a report of the campaign against Oronviel.

  “Enough of this,” Lord Manderechiel barked. “We take no joy in one another’s company. We are here to discover why your heir made such a disastrous botch of a simple raid!”

  “If it was so simple, my lord, I am surprised Aramenthiali did not precede Caerthalien to the field,” Runacarendalur said. “You also share a border with Oronviel, do you not? But perhaps your spies are better than ours.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Ladyholder Dormorothon laughed.

  “None of us has been able to gain any useful knowledge of matters within Oronviel, Prince Runacarendalur,” Lord Ivaloriel said calmly. “I believe we all know much the same things: first Hamphuliadiel Astromancer demands Vieliessar Lightsister be returned to the Sanctuary—so we know she has left it—then we discover she has taken Oronviel from Lord Thoromarth through the exercise of an ancient custom no one has thought to set aside. At Midwinter she declares she will become High King. And now it is Rain, and all we have known for moonturns is rumor.”

  “One rumor is true,” Runacarendalur answered. “The mercenaries who fight for her do so wearing Oronviel colors.”

  “You said ‘they fight for her,’” Lord Girelrian said. “We have understood it is Thoromarth who leads the army of Oronviel.”

  “No,” Runacarendalur said, shaking his head. “If that were so … I would have won the day. Vieliessar leads them into battle and fights as if she was born in armor.”

  Damn Father for this. And Mother too. How am I to know what they want me to say if I have not spoken to them privately first? But whatever else Runacarendalur might think of his family, his parents weren’t stupid. It must be the truth—or a pretense of truth—he was here to offer. And it is too much to hope that everyone’s spies do not already know what remains of our Household guard, so truth it is.… He recounted the events of that day and n
ight as plainly as possible.

  “I do not believe it,” Ladyholder Dormorothon said, shaking her head decisively. “I met her while she was still at the Sanctuary—a simple child who knew nothing of the world. A gifted Healer, yes, but hardly a master Warlord.”

  “Believe what you choose,” Runacarendalur said shortly. “If you prefer to think Thoromarth has somehow changed his entire way of waging war in half a year, then perhaps that is more likely.”

  “We do not need to fight with each other yet,” Ladyholder Edheleorn said, implying, with good reason, that they would undoubtedly fight with one another later. “There might be many explanations for Oronviel’s new ways.”

  “Perhaps,” Runacarendalur said, fighting to hold to his temper. “Vieliessar may have found some gifted knight whose counsel she follows. Or perhaps one of her mercenaries plans her tactics. We have all made use of them, and we did not do so because they lost battles. But this much is true: she led her army herself and she did not die on the field. If she is not a master Warlord, then she is at least a blooded knight.”

  “Ah, Bolecthindial, perhaps you should have risked our ire these many years ago and betrothed the girl to your heir,” Lord Manderechiel said. “I am sure we would not have asked so very much in reparations for that transgression. And he seems fonder of her than of the Oronviel Princess he has—among other things—lost.”

  “Does your champion accompany you, Lord Manderechiel?” Runacarendalur asked with icy politeness.

  “I think we can dispense with this foolishness, Manderechiel,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said briskly. “We are here to decide what to do in the matter of Oronviel, not to provide Caerthalien with entertainment.”

  “What to do? To see Vieliessar Farcarinon dead, of course,” Lord Manderechiel answered. “What else?”

  * * *

  “I know it was a shameful and difficult thing to force you to,” Lord Bolecthindial said, candlemarks later, “but it was necessary.”