“You must decide whether you wish to slay your enemy by Magery or have komen on the field,” Ivrulion Light-Prince said, stepping into the pavilion. “My Lightborn cannot do both.”
He walked over to the table and sat down beside Runacar. His hair and robes were as dry as if he hadn’t walked across the camp in a rainstorm and Runacarendalur spared a moment for wistful envy. There were a few spells of Magery he wouldn’t mind being able to cast.
“Yet Vieliessar Oathbreaker’s Lightborn seem to have no difficulty doing so,” Lengiathion said. “Oronviel took Laeldor by Magery—and Mangiralas too.”
“And many komen died in Mangiralas who might have lived had she not,” Runacarendalur said with a sigh. “My lords, this wrangling gains us nothing. What of tomorrow’s battle?”
“I shall send for the maps once we have eaten,” Lengiathion said. “Let us see if we can manage not to get the rest of our komen killed. The purpose of war is to inconvenience the enemy, not ourselves.”
“The purpose of war is to win.” Runacarendalur heard the ghostly whisper in his mind and could not say where the thought had come from.
But he was afraid that he knew.
* * *
Gwaenor shifted nervously beneath him, obviously wondering why they were standing here, rank upon rank in such silence, without horns or drums or the clash of steel. It was late in Fire Moon, a time of hot breathless days and a sky the color of hammered silver. Runacarendalur could look to his left and see the yellow and blue of Aramenthiali, to the right and see the blue and silver of Cirandeiron: two thousand knights, the honored nobility of the High Houses. The lords and ladies of every court west of the Mystrals had come to Farcarinon to see the infamous Vieliessar brought low. In the front rank the War Princes themselves waited, armed and armored, each with their Warlord beside them. A few yards beyond the first rank of silent, waiting horsemen the grass was covered with an enormous white carpet woven with a design of pine boughs in threads of gold and silver, signaling that this was a meeting in truce. Above this was a canopy of white linen as sheer as silk, held up by four poles of ashwood thickly covered in pure gold. The carpet sparkled like winter snow in moonlight, for the canopy did nothing to block the sun.
Beyond the canopy was a wide, shallow brook. The Toharthay was the division they’d agreed on; the far side was Vieliessar’s sovereign territory, the near side was theirs. Runacarendalur remembered fighting across the Meadows of Aralhathumindrion years earlier. Then it had been a broad, pleasant meadow edged with mature forest. Now the forest had been cut back until only the Flower Forest remained, to accommodate the pavilions of all who gathered here. They stretched on for miles, a joyous fair. Children flew kites and nobles flew hawks; there had been great feasts held every night and contests of skill each day for the past fortnight. If not for the fact that the thousands gathered here had scared away any game worth hunting, it would have been idyllic—war without pain and loss.
She will come soon, Runacarendalur told himself. The day, the candlemark, every detail of this meeting had been worked out in advance, during a moonturn of arguing with intermediaries. There had not even been an exchange of hostages; if Vieliessar did not come to parley, the Alliance’s armies would attack.
So she will die, and I will die with her, for we are bound together and our hearts beat as one. Surely it is some curse placed upon Caerthalien that I should be so bound to this enemy. At least her death will buy a time of peace in which Domcariel can learn how to rule.
Prince Gatriadde had come to Cirandeiron sennights ago, begging for the chance to take revenge upon the monster who had slain his sister and parents and stolen his domain. He knew every secret place where Vieliessar’s army lodged, and Camaibien Lightbrother, who had accompanied him, had drawn detailed maps.
The few scouts the High Houses had dared to send into Mangiralas confirmed Prince Gatriadde’s story, so the Alliance had sent an envoy to Vieliessar, offering her and everyone in her army a full pardon in exchange for surrender, saying the disposition of her forces was known and War Season was drawing to a close.
And instead of seeking honorable battle, the Child of the Prophecy, the “destined High King” wept like a child and begged to be allowed to surrender. Now all that remained was the parley, under flags of a truce the Alliance meant to break.
Finally there was the distant sound of a horn. Vieliessar and her escort were approaching. They rode from the trees at the far edge of Aralhathumindrion: Vieliessar and two tailles of knights. She carried the parley banner on a slender ashwood rod, the enormous rectangle of white silk floating on the summer breeze. Each side would carry such a banner: the parley truce was in effect so long as both were held high.
Vieliessar’s helmet was crowned with a wreath of pine boughs and there was another garland of them about her destrier’s neck. She had changed her armor—instead of the familiar silver, she and all her knights wore green armor and were mounted on white destriers, and Runacarendalur saw, with a sensation of incredulity, that she and her komen wore the silver and green of Farcarinon. That was bad enough, but instead of Farcarinon’s silver wolf, she claimed the Unicorn as her badge.
Wait, he thought in sudden alarm. That isn’t her.
He could not say how he knew, but he was certain. Does she think she can meet under a truce-flag without letting us see her face?
Even if Runacarendalur wanted to give warning, he could not. The protocol for a Parley of Surrender was rigid and exact, its form unchanged for thousands of years. A shout of warning, an unexpected movement from any of the attendants on either side would be considered an attack. If the Alliance did not abide by the protocols Vieliessar would still be dead … but they would never regain the Houses of the East.
And so he could only watch helplessly as the False Vieliessar and her escort rode at a slow walk toward the Toharthay. At the edge of the stream they stopped and the woman raised her visor, exposing her face for all to see.
She looked like Vieliessar. Runacarendalur leaned forward in disbelief. It is not her! he insisted to himself.
The massed knights-herald of the Alliance sounded a set of signals. Truce—the foe is in sight—the foe awaits—the parley begins. The knight at the False Vieliessar’s side raised his visor and put his own warhorn to his lips, sounding an identical set of calls.
A Lightborn Runacarendalur did not know came from the Alliance side to test for spellcraft. The False Vieliessar had brought a Lightborn as well. Both indicated there was no Magery being used here. Runacarendalur ground his teeth in frustration. How could the man not see?
As the two Lightborn retreated, the first rank of riders set their horses walking slowly forward.
Bolecthindial Caerthalien, Manderechiel Aramenthiali, Girelrian Cirandeiron, Clacheu Denegathaiel, Chardararg Lalmilgethior, Ferorthaniel Sarmiorion … every High House War Prince in the West was in the group riding slowly toward the canopy and the carpet. Each was accompanied by their Warlord, and Caerthalien had supplied the knight-herald, so the numbers on both sides were identical.
And to think, I was proud when Father won the right to carry the truce banner by arguing that Vieliessar would expect Caerthalien—where she was fostered—to take control of the parley. Now he wondered if Domcariel would be War Prince of Caerthalien by sunset … or if he would be.
Kerothay was a young stallion, temperamental and excitable. It was pure vanity for Lord Bolecthindial to keep a destrier when he no longer rode to war, but today his hot-blooded mount served his purposes well. Caerthalien’s War Prince was cueing Kerothay to fidget and the bay stallion was playing up magnificently—dancing skittishly, twisting his neck to snap at the animals walking at either side. When the truce banner Bolecthindial carried fluttered, Kerothay sprang sideways.
Bolecthindial dropped the banner, as anyone might.
The knights-herald of both sides sounded a warning call. A banner of parley is down.
Kerothay bounded into the stream, apparently out of contr
ol. Lord Lengiathion’s mount followed instantly, and a heartbeat later, the other War Princes gave chase. Most of the waiting lords komen knew nothing of the secret plans woven around this parley, but the Heirs, the Swordmasters, and a few others did.
The party on the far bank scattered as the Alliance horses charged them. As they exploded into movement, the shimmering white banner the False Vieliessar carried burst into flame. The knights-herald of the Alliance sounded their horns again. A banner of parley is down. And then: Attack.
The woman who had pretended to be Vieliessar slammed down her visor. In that instant, the glamourie on her and her escort vanished. Their horses were no longer white, nor were they destriers—Runacarendalur recognized the long-legged, deep-chested bodies of animals built for speed and endurance. The twenty-five members of the False Vieliessar’s party turned and galloped for the trees.
Runacarendalur took a scant moment to shout a few words to Helecanth even as he spurred Gwaenor forward. We can catch them—they’ll never reach the trees in time to hide themselves! But before he reached the stream, the sky went from heat-burnished silver to black. Thunder-crack and lighting-flash came almost together and despite himself Runacarendalur flinched, but the enemy Lightborn had called a storm, not a lightning strike. Icy autumn rain sheeted down out of the sky, destroying visibility and making the grass as slippery as ice.
But the komen knew the terrain and destriers were trained to run blind if they must, guided by the hands, knees, and voices of their riders. The charging knights barely slowed as they crossed the stream. The tight column spread until the line of knights extended the full width of the meadow. Around and behind him Runacarendalur could hear shouts of glee—if the War Princes wanted to claim victory without battle, their komen wanted to fight.
He’d seen an opening ahead, and was just about to spur Gwaenor through it, when Runacarendalur heard screams of agony, close enough and loud enough to slice through the thunder of hooves and the hiss of the rain. He couldn’t rein in without being instantly trampled, but he slowed as much as he could, though Gwaenor fought him. There was another flash of lightning—it seemed to make the raindrops hang unmoving in mid-air—and he saw horses down, too many to count.
Trying to jump the downed animals was madness. Anything else was certain death.
With hands and heels he gathered Gwaenor up, and the destrier soared over the obstacles in front of him, then jumped again, quickly, to clear a body in armor lying nearly at his feet. Some of the knights thrown from the saddle were getting up. Others lay motionless, sprawled on the grass. They were tangled, komen and horses both, in uprooted stakes and thin coils of painted rope. Tripwires. They strung tripwires. They knew we’d break the parley truce! Knowing Vieliessar had expected betrayal infuriated him. If she’d known it wasn’t going to be a true parley, why agree to it at all?
The rain was slacking off. He wondered if the enemy thought nobody would be willing to follow them into the trees.
I’ll follow wherever you go. Lead me to Vieliessar and I’ll kill her myself.
* * *
Nadalforo and the Lightborn galloped for the trees. It had taken a dozen Mages to cast and hold the glamourie that gave her the seeming of Lord Vieliessar, more to give the horses they rode the seeming of destriers. The bespellings would have been discovered had Isilla Lightsister not Overshadowed the Lightbrother who would have revealed the truth.
The storm started right on time. Strung low ahead were a staggered series of trip-lines—and if their pursuers continued the chase after running into them, the woods were filled with beast-pits that held sharpened stakes at the bottom. And if there were some still foolish enough to pursue after that, there were more traps waiting. There was only one safe way across the meadow and through the woods, and you needed Mage-sight to find it. Nadalforo was no Mage, but the helm she wore was bespelled, and through its eye-slits the markers she needed to see glowed with blue fire.
The moment they burst out of the trees, a hand-picked cadre from her old Stonehorse Free Company rode from cover to join them. First Sword Faranglis was leading Nadalforo’s destrier; she vaulted from the back of the palfrey and flung herself into the destrier’s saddle. Faranglis handed her a sword, which she slipped into the empty scabbard she’d been wearing.
“What news?” he asked.
“Some of them will be right behind us,” she said.
“Torch the forest,” Faranglis said. “Lightborn can make anything burn.”
“Tangisen. Your Keystone Spell is Fire. Do it,” Isilla Lightsister said.
The Lightbrother turned back toward the stand of woods and seemed to simply look at it. Nadalforo was about to tell him it was taking too much time, when every tree in the wood—and every leaf upon the ground, every twig, every bush, every burnable thing—suddenly burst into flame. The wave of heat rolled over them with the force of a blow. The palfreys shifted nervously.
“There were people in there,” Tangisen said quietly.
“And now they’re dead people. Come on,” Nadalforo said.
They crossed Farcarinon’s derelict fields, moving south at a steady, ground-covering pace. The plan called for them to ride until they struck the southern Sanctuary road and then head east. If Prince Gatriadde and Camaibien Lightbrother had managed to escape in the chaos, they’d head for that road as well. If they hadn’t, they’d be with the Alliance army that marched on Mangiralas. They’d escape then and find their way east. Or they’d die.
They’d ridden until the burning woodland was far behind them and the last of the Mage-called storm clouds had drifted away, when Nadalforo saw a flicker of brightness through the trees ahead and reigned in. “We may have trouble,” she said quietly.
A moment later, the enemy came into view. Green surcoats with three gold stars. Caerthalien. Some of the Caerthalien destriers wore caparisons, indicating they and their riders had been part of the honor guard. Most didn’t.
“I make it three hundred horse,” Faranglis said quietly.
“That we can see,” Nadalforo said. “Caerthalien musters twenty times that.”
She glanced at the twenty-four Lightborn with her. Some looked worried. Some looked terrified. All of them had shed every part of their armor they could safely remove while riding, but they were still wearing too much of it to look like anything but knights. “Go there,” she said, pointing toward the right. “If anyone comes near you, surrender at once and say you’re Lightborn. It might save you.”
“I want to fight,” Isilla Lightsister said stubbornly.
“And we don’t have time to teach you just now,” Nadalforo snapped. “So unless you plan to strike them all dead with Magery—go.”
“So we fight?” Faranglis asked, sounding pleased.
“Unless you think asking them very nicely to go away will work,” Nadalforo said. “How shall we do this?”
“Knights like to charge. I say we make them chase us. We’ll get a good idea of how many they are and maybe draw them away from their reinforcements,” Faranglis said.
Nadalforo’s commanders began riding back up the column of the company, passing her orders to the warriors. Nadalforo called up her mental map of Farcarinon. To the right was a stand of trees covering what had once been a manorial estate. The terrain was treacherous for horses, filled with holes, half-buried stones, and jagged bits of wall. It would have to do.
Thank the Hunt Lord Vieliessar sent us to the parley instead of some of her pretty komen. At least we have a chance of getting out alive.…
The Caerthalien knight-herald blew her warhorn. The signal to charge.
* * *
“We have superior numbers, my lord,” Helecanth said in satisfaction.
“And we will use them,” Runacarendalur answered.
The parley knights had been joined by a grand-taille of riders in the browned armor of mercenaries. One of the green knights gestured, and the other green-armored knights, along with the Lightborn who had accompanied them, rode to Runa
carendalur’s left. None of them had their helms on, and he could see their hair was cropped short. They were all Lightborn. Lightborn wearing armor.
That’s how they tricked us.
“We will accept no surrender,” he said, and Helecanth nodded. They’d need information about Vieliessar’s plans, but they could get it from the Lightborn.
The mercenaries formed ranks, preparing for battle. “Sound the charge,” Runacarendalur said, lowering his visor.
Helecanth raised the warhorn to her lips and sounded the call.
Caerthalien charged.
There was always a few moments between the clarion and the first clash of weapons that renewed Runacarendalur’s joy in battle, his conviction that the Code was a magnificent instrument that evoked all that was great and glorious in the spirits of those who embraced it. The rush of wind over his armor, the thunder of hooves behind him, the speed and power of the animal he rode—all these things conferred a transcendence not even the Lightborn could know. In the moments of the charge, Runacarendalur was one with the komen he led—and not merely with them, but with all who had come before them and all who would follow. It was the closest thing to immortality that any being could possess.
Then his line hit the enemy column.
The encircling maneuver he was attempting fell apart instantly. The rear of the enemy column swung to his right, but not to form an opposing line. They were running for the trees; the head of the column faded back before Runacarendalur’s assault before turning to follow those who had already fled. They meant to make this a chase, but the enemy still had to fight through the deosil side of the Caerthalien line to escape, and Caerthalien did not intend to let them. Wherever either side possessed a momentary advantage of numbers, it used that advantage ruthlessly. It was butcher’s work, with nothing of elegance or honor about it. Runacarendalur withdrew his tuathal wing rather than have it chase the enemy across the field, and sent it galloping along the back of his line. If it reached the trees first, he could keep the enemy from vanishing into them like so many rats down a rat-hole, and terrain elements blocked their retreat to the north and west. If he could keep them on open ground, superior numbers and superior skill would grant Caerthalien the victory.
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