Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER SIX

LEAF AND SWORD, FLOWER AND SHIELD

In Bethros, they sing songs of Princess Ringwil’s stainless honor, who said: “Where you exile Einartha, so send me, for my love is as great as my loyalty.”

But the song they sing in Haldil is

The Song of Ringwil

, for it was Ringwil who betrayed Bethros, and by this pretense sought sanctuary in Haldil thereafter. There is no Song of Einartha, who called Ringwil to the Challenge Circle when she discovered the truth, and whom Ringwil spared to toil as a kitchen-servant until the end of her days.

—A History of the Hundred Houses

“Again.”

Gunedwaen waited implacably, the elaborate braid only the Lords Komen had the right to wear a cool weight against his neck. He watched Vieliessar wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and attempt to stifle a sigh as she turned to retrieve her mock weapon from the grass—some distance away—where it had landed.

He held his wooden practice sword as if it were the deadly weapon he had once proudly borne. The strangeness of having two good hands to grasp its hilt, two good legs to carry him forward in this deadly dance, was nearly forgotten. He was once more who he had once been: Swordmaster to House Farcarinon.

“A duel can be decided in moments. A battle lasts from dawn to dusk. If you tire after a candlemark, or two, or four, you will die.”

“I am not tired.” She lifted the wooden weapon and turned to face him, though still standing outside the practice circle he’d marked in the soft earth.

“Losing your weapon is another way to die,” he said, raising his own. He saw her mouth thin—not anger, but determination—and she paced quickly toward him, weapon at the ready as she stepped across the boundary of the circle. When the two blades clashed, it was a almost a surprise not to hear the ring of steel on steel.

Mornings were for drill, the same drills every komen-to-be practiced from their tenth, twelfth, fourteenth year. Endurance, speed, awareness of the sword’s position, its range, the guards and counters and strikes.

Afternoons were for turning those drills into practice against a living opponent.

Vieliessar circled him, searching for an opening. Gunedwaen gave her none. Each time he felt her settle into a pattern he would attack, striking at her sword, her body. Some of the attacks got through. Fewer than yesterday. Fewer than a sennight ago.

Pride had carried him through the long cold years of being a pensioner of Caerthalien, and pride demanded—on the day she placed the wooden sword in the hand she had given him—he be all he had once been.

He had hoped—still—to teach her that determination was not enough. Desire could not replace the years of training she should have had. And so, that first day, he had attacked with all his skill. The practice swords were strong enough to break bones—she had crafted them from ahata—and he did not pull his strikes. Each time their swords clashed he’d disarmed her. The practice had gone on until her hands were too bruised and weary to clasp her sword’s hilt, until exhausted muscles would not obey her command.

She’d offered no word of complaint.

On the second day, she managed to retain her sword during one engagement in ten.

By the fifth day, Gunedwaen searched his heart: was he giving her false confidence in her skills? Was he allowing her success she did not deserve? He redoubled his efforts to overwhelm her.

It worked—for a time.

She was better than she ought to be. Better than she could be. She wasn’t his equal, but the skill she now possessed should have taken her years, not sennights, to achieve.

But wars are not fought afoot by knights with wooden swords.

He knew her hope of uniting the Hundred Houses was madness. It did not matter. What mattered was that she had come to him to be made a knight. And he could not do it. The training of a knight began afoot, it was true, but it continued on the back of a palfrey, translating the patterns already graven in muscle and nerve to fighting from the saddle. Last of all, with a destrier, learning to ride a weapon as well as wield one.

He could not give her the armor that would fit her like a second skin, the destrier who would be her companion and salvation on the field. But it was good to hold a sword again, even if it was merely a wooden one.

Just as it was good to teach his prince that she was not—yet—his equal.

He did not manage to disarm her again. But he could tire her, forcing her to attack while he merely defended, attacking in return only when she let her attention lapse. They fought on until she was staggering with exhaustion. But he was equally weary, and if he struck her unconscious, she might die before she woke. So he stepped back, across the edge of the circle, raising his sword in salute to signal the end of the bout. For a moment he thought she might follow and press the attack, for her gaze was fixed and distant and she swayed on her feet. But a moment later he saw her chest heave, a stuttering interruption to her ragged panting, and she stepped back as well, lowering the tip of her sword to the earth to keep her steady.

“A good day’s work. I am looking forward to a good hot bath,” Gunedwaen said mildly.

There had been one thing Gunedwaen had insisted on before he’d begun to teach Vieliessar swordcraft, and it was not for self-indulgence’s sake. A body bruised from a long day of practice must be given a chance to relax instead of stiffening. Stiff muscles tore and sprains and bruises then led to further injuries. He’d thought of nothing more esoteric than a deep tub, for Lightborn magic could easily heat water.

Instead, she had made a hot spring within the Flower Forest.

The surface steamed pleasantly, for even within Eldanwarasse the evening air was cool. He sighed in content as he stepped into the water and settled himself. Vieliessar sat opposite him, sighing as she raked splayed fingers through her hair. It was nearly chin-length by now, still much too short, but far longer than he’d ever seen a Lightborn wear it.

“You will weary of teaching me long before I have gained the skill I must have,” she said with a sigh.

“You are a promising pupil,” he answered neutrally. He hesitated over what he must say next, but she was not only his student, but his liege: he owed her truth. “And I have said before: I cannot give you all that you must have.”

“How not?” she asked, as if his answer might have changed in the past sennights.

“Lord Vieliessar, with my time and your patience, I can make you the equal of any knight afoot. But a knight does not fight afoot. And I cannot give you—”

“Sword, or armor, or warhorse.” She sighed deeply. “So you have said. And I have listened.”

“Surely there is … some other who might aid you in your hope?” Gunedwaen asked cautiously. It was the first time he had. Before he’d begun to train her, he’d thought her purpose to be unattainable. Now he thought her success merely doubtful.

“Some other of my father’s meisne—who yet live?” she asked, her voice wavering between scorn and weariness. “Think you that I do not know where each of them bides? All have sworn fealty to new lords, Master Gunedwaen. To Farcarinon’s honor and theirs, there were not many who survived to do so. No quarter was offered on Farcarinon’s last battlefield, and those komen who survived the day were slain if they would not swear. Filioniel was Farcarinon’s Horsemaster—he toils now for Caerthalien. Farcarinon’s Warlord has taken service with Oronviel, for Caerthalien was ever generous with its leavings. Gwaenabros Lightsister cannot aid me—in truth, she may stand now my enemy, by Hamphuliadiel’s grace. To which of these should I present myself, saying I mean to cast down the lord to whom they have pledged?”

Gunedwaen said nothing. He’d known Farcarinon’s last day had gone badly, but never—even in legend—had one of the Hundred Houses been erased. If he had not been sick and crippled when he was brought to Caerthalien’s Great Hall, he, too, would have been given the choice between pledging fealty to Caerthalien and swift execution. But it had amused Bolecthindial to have a Binding set upon him and to force him to live as his supplicant, and so Gunedwaen had not been sworn.

Vieliessar shook her head wearily, and poured water from her cupped hands over her face and neck. “They will not follow a Green Robe,” she repeated stubbornly.

Nor will the Hundred follow a lone knight, no matter how brilliant her armor and sharp her sword. He did not speak the words. She knew that truth as well as he did.

Rain became Flower became Sword.

The tasks Gunedwaen set Vieliessar became more demanding, her training nearly brutal, and nothing she did seemed to please him. Where they had once shared the simple chores of their little homestead equally, now every one of them fell to her: wood gathering and water fetching, hunting game and cleaning and cooking what she caught. She rose even earlier than before. Her morning runs stretched for many leagues and she ran now with a pack of stones upon her back. Nor did she run alone, for as often as not Gunedwaen paced her on horseback—forcing her to a faster pace, chivvying her onto uneven ground, even striking at her with his practice sword as she ran. In the practice circle his attacks had become unremittingly savage, targeting elbow, knee, shoulder, every vulnerable point. Their bouts began when she was tired and ended when she was staggering with exhaustion. The only task he had not assigned to her was the crafting of the shields he now wore in their practice—a komen’s shields for forearm and shoulder. He had burned them from ahata-wood and bound them to his arm with strips of buckskin, and no matter how hard Vieliessar tried, it was a rare day when she could land a blow anywhere but upon the ahata’s unyielding surface.

She wore no shields.

On any occasion Gunedwaen did not have a weapon in his hand—and many when he did—he would badger her with questions.

She commanded the center of the army. She had ridden to the attack. The enemy’s center line collapsed instead of engaging, and reserve forces her scouts had not seen swept in from both sides. What did she do?

She commanded a reserve force. She could see the main force was outmatched, but she had not received the command to engage. What did she do?

She commanded the deosil wing of the army. The enemy charged, attacking the tuathal wing instead of the center. She gave the order to support the tuathal commander, and just as she did, a force twice the size of her own attacked her from behind. What did she do?

“I order my force to take to the air and fly out of danger, of course, which is as likely as my being attacked from behind!” she snapped. “Gunedwaen, this cannot happen! I would have seen them—they could not get behind our lines, or—”

“It is all these texts you have read which convince you of this,” Gunedwaen said crossly. “Very well. Undoubtedly it is as you say.” He set down his bowl and got to his feet, walking from the hut. Striker heaved herself to her feet with a long-suffering sigh and followed him.

Vieliessar set down her nearly untouched supper and pushed the heels of her hands wearily against her eyes. Everything ached, and she was no closer to unifying the Hundred than she’d been half a year ago.

And no closer, so it seemed, to becoming a knight.

The minutes passed, and Gunedwaen did not return.

She got to her feet.

When she stepped outside into the night, Gunedwaen was saddling Trouble.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It is barely two candlemarks past sunset,” Gunedwaen corrected. He tightened the girth, and swung into the saddle. “And I am going nowhere. We are going somewhere.”

“Where?” Vieliessar asked doubtfully.

“Come along and see,” Gunedwaen answered. He clicked his tongue at Trouble and the mare moved off.

The broken stones of Farcarinon Keep were ghostly in the moonlight. It was the full moon of Sword, its light so bright there was no need to conjure a globe of Silverlight to show them their way. Gunedwaen had said nothing about their destination, and Vieliessar had not asked. The only time they had spoken was when she stopped him so he could take Striker up on Trouble, for the old hikuliasa had begun to lag behind.

She’d only been here once before in body. In mind, she’d been here a thousand times since the day she’d learned her true name. Promising vengeance. Demanding answers. Mourning the life she could have lived.

She had renounced her vengeance and received her answers, and her mourning time was done.

The watchtowers and the outer wall were nothing more than shattered stones scattered across what had been the meadows and orchards of the keep, and the keep itself, from ramparts to deepest cellars, had been forced to collapse in upon itself, until all that remained was a low hill of stone that time and the seasons had covered with grass and flowers. A small portion of the inner curtain wall remained standing, the only thing to say that once a proud fortress had stood upon this spot.

The road that led to the castel gates was bright in the moonlight; the earth, hard-hammered over the centuries, giving way only grudgingly to the encroachment of the meadow. Trouble’s hooves, noiseless on the soft summer earth, clopped faintly as Gunedwaen guided her onto the road. The ditches that had once lined it had fallen inward years before, leaving only shallow depressions in the grass.

As they crossed the boundary where the outer wall had once stood, Striker raised her head from where she lay across Gunedwaen’s knees and gave a soft, interrogative bark. An instant later, Vieliessar heard the clink of a bridle and realized there was someone here. She forced herself to pretend she’d heard nothing. Gunedwaen must know someone awaited him—awaited them.

She steeled herself against betrayal. Just as well to see it come now, if that is what comes, for if I cannot bind my House’s last vassal to me, what hope do I have of binding princes?

A moment later, a stranger rode out of the shadow.

His grey gelding’s coat had been rubbed with powdered charcoal to make it dull and dark, but there was no disguising the quality of the animal, the kind which only a great lord—or a great lord’s favorite—might ride. Neither horse nor rider displayed the badge of any House; the rider wore a dark hooded cloak, but Vieliessar could see the unmistakable angled shape of a scabbarded sword beneath the cloak, and her ears brought her the faint sweet jingling of chain mail.

Gunedwaen reined in and waited. Vieliessar stood, silent and watchful, at his knee.

The stranger stopped, pushed back the hood of his cloak. The silver of his mail-shirt gleamed at his throat, and now she could see that the cloak’s clasp was enameled. A red otter on a white field. Oronviel.

Farcarinon’s Warlord has taken service with Oronviel, for Caerthalien was ever generous with its leavings …

“Rithdeliel is a friend,” Gunedwaen said quietly. He shifted Striker in his arms, and Vieliessar took her and set her on the ground. The hikuliasa wandered over to the grey gelding, who lowered his head to sniff at her, unimpressed.

“An ally—perhaps,” Rithdeliel corrected.

“Ally, then,” Gunedwaen conceded. “It has been far too long.”

“Not as long as I expected, since I thought you dead,” Rithdeliel said. “Your message was a surprise.”

“As was your answer. I had not thought you saved any of Gwaenabros’s Finding charms.”

“You will admit it came in useful. I assume this is the girl? Have you proof she is who she claims to be?”

She stepped into the space between the two horses.

“I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, daughter of Serenthon War Prince and Nataranweiya, his Bondmate and Lady,” she said. “Declare yourself, knight of Oronviel.”

She saw him smile. “Rithdeliel, Warlord of Oronviel, begs leave to declare himself to you, Vieliessar Lightsister.”

She turned her back on him without answering. A bright flash of memory showed her Ladyholder Glorthiachiel doing just this to show her displeasure to one of Caerthalien’s court. She had not thought of her childhood in longer than she could remember, and for a moment the memory actually made her want to smile.

“Why should I trust him?” she asked Gunedwaen, her tone just short of a demand. “Who has broken his pledged word once will break it twice.”

“Rithdeliel was once Warlord to House Farcarinon,” Gunedwaen answered.

She gestured impatiently, brushing away his words. “So much I knew even before I came to you,” she answered pitilessly. “And I knew him forsworn of his allegiance to Farcarinon. If he is indeed forsworn by pledging to Oronviel.”

“‘He’ is here,” Rithdeliel said. “And were you a true knight I would challenge you for such accusations. Do you think I forswore Farcarinon lightly?”

“I think it is a marvel and a wonder you survived to do so,” she answered, turning back to face him.

“Caerthalien did not wish to see too many of its own executed, no matter where their lawful oaths had since been given,” Rithdeliel answered. “Or do you not know the whole of this tale? I shall tell it to you. I was chief among the knights in Lord Ethradan’s house—unfortunately for us both, for Serenthon Farcarinon had already set himself to walk the road that would slay him, and for this cause he played suitor to Caerthalien. There he met my Lady, and knew her for his Bondmate. And so Lord Ethradan of Caerthalien, Nataranweiya’s father, gave her as her dowry as many of his household as he could spare, myself among them, trusting our loyalty and care would keep her alive.”

“It did not,” Vieliessar observed.

She saw sharp-cut lines appear around Rithdeliel’s mouth as he clenched his jaw tight upon his anger. When he spoke again, his words were as cold and stinging as spitting snow.

“I was taken from the battlefield in chains that last day,” he said, his words soft and precise. “You live because of what I and my army did upon that field. We held the Alliance there until Lady Nataranweiya could flee Farcarinon Keep, though we were outmatched a hundred to one. To this battle War Prince Serenthon had summoned everyone who had ever borne a blade, or who might do so soon, and they were slain in their hundreds: aged greatmothers and children who had not yet leaped the fire or flown their kites. They are no more than names written on the wind, for no kin survived to place their names upon the Tablet of Memory. We in our hundreds stood against the Alliance in its thousands. Of the flower of Farcarinon, not one in a thousand survived the day. Those of us who did paid dearly, for we languished in chains until the day you returned to the Sanctuary of the Star, and many who had walked from the field did not live to walk beneath the sun again. When I was brought forth from the darkness at last, it was to hear Oronviel would ransom me from Caerthalien, if I would pledge fealty to War Prince Thoromarth. I had seen Serenthon fall, and I knew all of Farcarinon dead with him, for if the House had survived, Bolecthindial would not have sold my name as if I were a Landbond in the field. Farcarinon was dead,” he repeated heavily. “And so I pledged to War Prince Thoromarth, and I have served him faithfully since that day. I came here for Gunedwaen’s asking, and for my love for Serenthon, but I do not know that I wish to give up either freedom or life to the impatient tantrums of a child.”

“I have learned patience from the cradle,” Vieliessar answered, her words following his, beat upon beat, as if they clashed with naked blades. “And I am no child—you of all should know this, who so auspiciously marked the day of my birth. Know this as well: I would gladly have ended my days within the Sanctuary of the Star, save that the Hundred Houses face an enemy they are too blind and selfish to see. To prepare them against the day of its coming I must become a knight. And I shall, Rithdeliel of Oronviel. Do not doubt me.”

“You speak of the Prophecy. The Song of Amrethion,” Rithdeliel said accusingly, and Vieliessar could only stare at him in astonishment. “Oh, come, Lightsister,” he added, his tone turning sharper. “Serenthon Farcarinon knew of it. He too said it spoke of an enemy to come, and that his kingship would unite the Hundred Houses against it. And so the Hundred killed him.”

Again her answer was swift. “They killed him for fear of a collar about their throats, and for the promises he made to gain and keep his allies. I will not bribe as if I am weak; I will not flatter as if I must beg victory to favor me. I will triumph or I will die—and on the day I am crowned, there will be no High House or Low, nor will there be noble and Landbond. There will be one land and one people, and they will be mine.”

For a long moment they stared at each other in silence.

“It has been too long since I have risked my life for something worth the risk,” Rithdeliel said at last. He nodded slowly, as if sealing an unspoken bargain. “Very well. Say what you would have of me.”

The ring and hiss of steel was loud in the practice ring, where two knights mounted on destriers backed and circled for advantage. The rich smell of ripening hay filled the still air and motes of dust pounded from the straw underfoot turned the air to gold. The sun beat down on the combatants, turning the layers of metal and padding they wore into instruments of torture. Fire Moon was the hottest moonturn of the year, as if summer expended all her heat in one last profligacy before the cool of autumn and the long slow slide into winter.

One combatant rode a muscular roan, the shields of his pearl-enameled armor enameled in the red-and-white of Oronviel. The other, mounted on a bay mare, wore the bare-metal armor and bare shields of a maiden knight. Neither spared a hand to the reins, for destriers were trained from foalhood to answer to the weight and pressure of an armored rider, to move as an extension of the knight on their back, to kill if asked.

Both destriers knew that today was not a day for killing. Neither animal had taken the field in years, too old to bear up under the rigors of a full campaign and long days of war. They spent their peaceful retirement training future knights in the deadly equestrian dance of horse and rider.

Rithdeliel gave his mount the signal to back out of range. Were this a battle—and were he mounted on Varagil—he would signal Varagil to spin and kick. Such a blow from a hoof could shatter bone, even through armor. Since this was not true battle, he brought his mount instead around to his opponent’s off side, so that she would have to strike across herself to defend or attack. If she turned in the saddle to strike a better blow—a common beginner’s mistake—she would be off-balance, unable to properly signal her mount and vulnerable to being either dragged or shoved from the saddle. He was looking forward to a swift conclusion to the mock-combat—this was his opponent’s first fight from the back of a destrier—but as he urged his stallion forward again, his opponent’s mare spun, slamming her rump against his stallion’s neck. Reflexively, the animal beneath him sprang sideways—only a moment of distraction, but time enough for his opponent to go on the attack once more.

Rithdeliel backed the stallion quickly out of range and raised his sword, indicating the match was over. To continue would be to risk injury, even with peacebonded blades, for a fall or unintended kick could be as fatal here as on the field.

For a moment his adversary sat frozen, as if she wished to continue the attack. Then she saluted in turn.

“A good beginning,” Rithdeliel said. He patted the stallion’s shoulder and the roan stretched his neck and shook his head, as if shaking off the glamour of battle.

“What more is there?” Vieliessar’s voice was sharp.

“Come. Let us return the horses to the stable and get ourselves out of this armor,” Rithdeliel said, not answering.

He swung down from the stallion’s back in the stableyard, moving lithely in the many-jointed flexible armor, and tossed the reins to one of the ostlers. When he turned to help Vieliessar down, he saw that she had vaulted from the saddle as lightly as he, and for a moment, Rithdeliel felt the same unease he’d felt the first time he’d watched her spar on foot against Gunedwaen. Three moonturns is not time enough to make a knight, or even three years. And Gunedwaen swears she had not even held a practice sword until last Hearth Moon. She is unnatural.…

Her back was to him; she had drawn off one heavy gauntlet to scratch her mare behind the hinge of her jaw. “I am who I need to be,” she answered as if he’d spoken.

He was uneasy enough that he might have questioned her further, but Varagil had sensed his presence, and a loud, demanding neigh now came from within the stable. “I am summoned,” he said briefly, walking quickly away.

A few moments later, Vieliessar joined Rithdeliel at Varagil’s loose-box. She’d removed her helmet; her sweat-sodden hair, still too short to braid properly, was plastered flat against her skull.

“Raemeros is a gallant steed, and she has taught me well,” Vieliessar said, watching him with Varagil. “But she cannot serve me in battle.”

“She’ll do well enough to get you killed,” Rithdeliel said brusquely. “Even if you believe that by some fortune you can declare against the High Houses and gain anything but your death.”

“Ah, but I will not do it alone,” she said, grave laughter in her voice. “There is Gunedwaen.”

“You cannot just ask for the Unicorn Throne,” Rithdeliel said.

The three of them were in Rithdeliel’s own rooms rather than Candlebrook Manor’s Great Hall. A half-played game of xaique was set out on a nearby board; a tea service waited on the sideboard, the pot already filled with its infusion and awaiting hot water. He lived in the clutter of one who lived surrounded by servants but who had no wife and family to nag him to tidiness: half-read scrolls, half-mended bits of tack, and delicate, broken pieces of armor littered every surface except the dining table.

“So you and Gunedwaen have said before,” Vieliessar pointed out. “And I shall not merely ask. One army takes another, just as in xaique. If I defeat the War Prince of a House and gain his domain, I gain his army as well. With each War Prince I defeat, my cause grows stronger.”

“This plan only works if you have an army to begin with, and I do not see one,” Gunedwaen said.

“You might once have persuaded the Free Companies to back your cause—if you promised them lands and estates and the settlement of old grievances,” Rithdeliel added. “But now…”

Vieliessar’s flight from the Sanctuary over a year earlier had borne bitter fruit. Goaded by Hamphuliadiel Astromancer’s claim that she sought vengeance on the Old Alliance, and fearing that she would seek to bring the Free Companies under her banner, Caerthalien and Aramenthiali—of all unlikely allies—had joined Ullilion and Cirandeiron to scour Farcarinon of those who made it their refuge. The Harrowing of Farcarinon had begun at the end of Sword—a few bare sennights after she and Gunedwaen had come to Oronviel—and stretched through Thunder into Fire.

The power of the Free Companies had been broken decisively. Of the hundreds of mercenary companies that had once sold their services to the highest payer, only Foxhallow and Glasshaven remained—surviving because these two, the largest Free Companies, possessed granted lands far to the east of Farcarinon.

“Their combined force would not have been sufficient to take even Oronviel,” Vieliessar pointed out reasonably. “The Free Companies do not have Lightborn to Heal their warriors; Oronviel could put every knight they’d wounded back into the field the following day, and so stand against them forever—and if they acted outside the Code in order to win, Oronviel could declare them Outlaw. We have seen this War Season how outlaws are dealt with.”

Those who had escaped the Harrowing were now outlaws in truth. No War Prince would offer them a place. The shattered remnants of the Free Companies had turned to banditry to survive.

Rithdeliel glanced toward Gunedwaen. The old Swordmaster’s eyes held an expression that was half exasperation, half resignation. He knew as well as Rithdeliel did that a lone knight had no hope of conquering the Hundred Houses and making them crown her king. And both of them knew it was impossible to persuade Vieliessar of that. All she would say was that she must unite the Hundred Houses, therefore she would unite the Hundred Houses.

“Mercenaries, or the army of a single House—both approaches are too conservative,” Vieliessar added, twisting the stem of her winecup between her hands. She glanced from Gunedwaen to Rithdeliel. “Would you trust any of the War Princes to honor their pledged word?”

Gunedwaen’s answer was a bark of derisive laughter. “Your life is the answer to that, my prince!”

Vieliessar nodded. “Just so. No matter what they say—what guarantees, what pledges, what hostages they give—any of the War Princes will break their sworn oath. Do you not see what that implies?”

There was a moment of silence. “To me, it implies I would sign no treaty with them if my life depended on their keeping of it. But I am sure this is not what you mean us to understand,” Rithdeliel said with ponderous sarcasm.

There was a brief flash of laughter in Vieliessar’s eyes, though her face remained composed. “But you are right, good master Rithdeliel. No treaty with any of the Hundred has worth. So from declaration to victory, my campaign can run only one War Season.”

Gunedwaen threw up his hands in exasperation. “It is not enough for you to say you will make the Hundred declare you High King—now you will defeat them all in one summer!” At his feet, Striker raised her head inquisitively, then lowered it again, seeing nothing interesting was happening.

“As you say,” Vieliessar said mildly, raising her cup to drink. She refused to speak further of her plans that evening, and the talk turned to gossip of the coming Harvest Court.

Four great feasts turned the wheel of the year: the Kite Festival of Flower Moon, the Fire Festival of Fire Moon, the Midwinter Feast of Snow Moon, and Harvest Court.

Unlike the other festivals, its time was not fixed: Harvest Court fell upon the first full moon after the Fire Festival, whether that lay in the moonturn of Harvest or not. Loremasters said it was the oldest of the festivals; storysingers spoke of a time before the building of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor by the first High King, when the folk had not lived beneath roofs of stone, but roamed the land following the great horse herds, a time when the harvest the name spoke of was not grain, but souls—for it was their claim that Harvest Court had once marked the half of the year in which the Starry Hunt had ridden over the land, taking whom it would as its prey.

At Harvest Court, by ancient custom, any might approach the War Prince to receive justice, no matter how humble their degree.

The gates of Oronviel Keep stood open. Across the outer courtyard—a space designed to box in attackers so they could be slain from above—the massive doors of the Great Hall stood open as well. Trestle tables were set out beneath the fruit-heavy trees of the castel orchard as well as in the Great Hall, for at Harvest Court, War Prince Thoromarth held a great feast for all who wished to attend. There would be horse races and foot races; prizes given for the most elaborately decorated loaf of bread, the most enticing new tea blend, the most beautiful weaving, the best new song and poem and tale—even for the most elaborate illusion cast by Oronviel’s Lightborn. The feasting and games would begin at dawn the morning after the full moon and continue until sunset on the seventh day afterward, and in between the contests and the celebrations, War Prince Thoromarth would hear the petitions of any who came before him. Even an outlaw or a traitor knight could come to Harvest Court and be heard, for all the Houses of the Fortunate Lands declared peace and truce for the whole of the festival.

The day was summer-warm, and the high windows in the Great Hall had been flung open to let the last of summer into the keep. From the makeshift race course laid out between the orchard and the craftworkers’ village—a space more often used to muster Oronviel’s troops for battle—came the sound of cheering and hornsong. Horses raced in the morning when it was cooler; in the afternoon, once the prizes for the winning horses had been given, there would be footraces.

Within the Great Hall, Oronviel’s great lords, and any others who wished to see, were gathered to hear their master give justice. Rithdeliel watched impassively as yet another petitioner stepped forward. He’d considered and discarded the idea of bringing Vieliessar and Gunedwaen to Harvest Court to beg sanctuary. It was true that Harvest Court was the time when banishings and outlawing could be set aside and pardoned, but Gunedwaen had been Caerthalien’s prisoner and Vieliessar fell under the Sanctuary’s dominion. And Thoromarth of Oronviel was no fool.

The clatter of sabatons against the stone of the outer courtyard roused him to instant alertness.

The figure who appeared in the doorway wore armor enameled in silver, as if to mock the unadorned plate of the unfledged knight. Her tabard and cloak were pure white, as if she came to Harvest Court to seek knighthood, but silver spurs gleamed on her feet and she wore swordbelt and scabbard. The empty scabbard was the only concession she made to the fact that she was entering the presence of a War Prince, for her helm was locked into place, rendering her anonymous.

“Rithdeliel—who comes?” Thoromarth asked.

“I do not know, Lord Thoromarth,” Rithdeliel answered, forcing his voice to show none of the anger he felt. He was not forsworn—in truth, he did not know.

All around the hall, watchers flurried like a cote of doves and whispered urgently to each other. But no one tried to impede the silver knight’s progress as she walked slowly and deliberately the full length of the hall.

“I give you good greeting, stranger knight,” Thoromarth said, as she stopped before him. “Remove your helm so I may look upon your face, and say what justice you would have of Oronviel.”

“I would have Oronviel’s lands, her knights, and all who lie in your hand. By the most ancient law of the princes who rule, I challenge you to single combat without quarter, and when I win your nobles will yield Oronviel to me and your heir will swear fealty.”

“You are mad!” Thoromarth hissed.

“Your pardon, my lord prince,” Eiron Lightbrother, Chief of Oronviel’s Lightborn, said quietly, leaning over to speak softly in Thoromarth’s ear. “This is law, made in the time of Mosirinde Peacemaker, and all the princes bound themselves to obey. At Harvest Court, such a challenge can be made. It must be accepted.”

Rithdeliel knew that what Eiron said was far from impossible: the Hundred Houses had bound themselves to many rulings in Mosirinde’s time. None could be set aside without the agreement of all the Houses together, something unlikely to be forthcoming.

“Withdraw your petition, stranger knight, and you may leave my hall unharmed,” Thoromarth said when Eiron stepped back.

“I do not withdraw it,” the silver knight said. “I demand of you combat for all you hold. This is the second time of asking.”

There was a long moment of charged silence, then Thoromarth laughed. “You shall have your battle—” he said.

“Father!” Princess Mialvialla had half risen from her seat.

“Silence!” Thoromarth snapped. “I say, you may have your battle, stranger knight. But I know the old law as well as you. My champion will meet you, not I. By the law you so imprudently invoke, mine is the right to choose the time and place. On the last day of the Festival, on the assembly field at midday. Present yourself then or hold yourself foresworn, and a coward.”

The silver knight bowed. “I shall be there, Thoromarth Oronviel.”

She turned and strode from the hall. Neirenmeirith Lightsister separated herself from the onlookers and followed.

“An amusing end to a tedious morning,” Thoromarth said brusquely, getting to his feet. “Come. We may be in time for the last of the racing.”

On the day appointed, five days after Thoromarth’s morning court had been so rudely interrupted, the nobles of Oronviel gathered on the assembly field.

The craftworkers had enclosed the space Eiron Lightbrother had indicated with strong wooden panels painted in the red-and-white of Oronviel, leaving two gaps in the panels wide enough to ride a horse through. The barrier would keep onlookers away from the two combatants. A raised platform had also been constructed; a framework above it hung with pavilion-weight silk to shelter those below from the midday sun. Lord Thoromarth and his favorites would have an excellent view of the battle.

How could she do such a thing as this? The question repeated endlessly in Rithdeliel’s mind as he waited just outside the arena. It was a betrayal that hurt more keenly than being sold to Oronviel so many years ago. He had trusted her. He had loved her for Nataranweiya’s sake. She held Gunedwaen’s life in her hands. And this is what she does with it!

His edginess communicated itself to his mount; Varagil sidled and tossed his head nervously.

“Be easy, old friend. It will be over soon,” Rithdeliel said, patting the burly grey’s neck. He was Thoromarth’s champion, as the Warlord always was. If he had been free to do so, he would have ridden to Candlebrook and laid her in chains, Lightborn or no, but even if Thoromarth were willing to excuse him from his Harvest Court duties, he would certainly have Rithdeliel followed, and then all would come out regardless.

Perhaps she will not come, he thought, glancing toward the sky. If she has told Gunedwaen of her plans— If he found them out by some other means—

Then he heard the roar of the onlookers and knew he was not to be spared. He spurred Varagil forward.

She walked into the arena as calmly as she had walked into Harvest Court. The only change was that she now carried weapons: broadsword and dagger. The dagger was not to fight with; it was carried by the komen to cut themselves free of harness or even their own armor on the field. Rithdeliel was grateful she had not come mounted, for Thoromarth would instantly recognize any animal she rode. He supposed it wouldn’t make a great deal of difference once her identity was discovered.

Rithdeliel was sworn to Oronviel. He would not foreswear himself. For oath and for honor, he would have to kill her.

She stood facing the dais on which Thoromarth sat. “I have come at the day and candlemark appointed, Thoromarth of Oronviel, to fulfill my promise to you. Here, in the third time of asking, I challenge you in the person of your champion, for all you hold within your hands!”

Rithdeliel saw Thoromarth smile. “Speak to me of that again, stranger knight, when my champion lies dead by your hand,” Oronviel’s War Prince called. “Begin!”

Any reply she might have made was drowned in the cheering of the crowd.

Rithdeliel spurred Varagil forward. There was not enough room for him to reach a full gallop, but there was certainly enough room to maneuver. Rithdeliel’s blade was poised. He had every advantage: height, speed, and a trained destrier. His first blow should shear through her armor between cullet and helm. Varagil would do the rest.

I will make this quick, for your lady mother’s sake.

At the last moment, just before he reached striking range, Varagil shied.

There was laughter from the dais as Varagil crabbed sideways and back. Rithdeliel dug his spurs into the stallion’s flanks, forcing him to settle. He trotted the destrier around the circumference of the ring to settle him further: this was a strange situation, and Varagil had always been high-strung. As Varagil moved in a wide circle around Vieliessar, she turned so she was always facing her enemy. Rithdeliel pressed his heels into the stallion’s sides and shifted his weight forward. Varagil answered the command easily, cantering forward. Once again Rithdeliel raised his sword to deliver the fatal blow.

Once again Varagil plunged sideways, carrying Rithdeliel out of reach.

Exasperated, he snatched at the reins and hauled back savagely. Varagil reared, shaking his head, kicking out harmlessly with his fore hooves as he staggered a few steps backward.

This cannot be Magery! Eiron stands beside Lord Thoromarth—he would sense it! This time Rithdeliel kept a tight hand on the rein, hauling the destrier’s head down as he spurred him forward.

The outcome was the same.

“Are we to sit here all day watching you show off, Lord Rithdeliel?” Princess Mialvialla called down.

Without answering, Rithdeliel turned Varagil back toward the opening in the barrier. He swung down from the saddle, leaving the reins hanging: Varagil would be quiet enough if no stranger approached him.

When he walked back into the arena, Vieliessar waited for him in silence: the Lightsister who wished to become a knight, who had struck the spark to kindle the tinder of his resentment of Farcarinon’s destruction. Rithdeliel had believed in Amrethion’s Prophecy because Nataranweiya had, and had always believed that when the day and the enemy came—if they did—the Hundred Houses would band together to face it.

And now it did not matter. When the day came, if it came, he would not see it.

War was the art, the duty, and the recreation of every child of the Hundred Houses. Their artificers forged unbreakable swords, crafted armor as pliant as heavy silk. A knight who wore it could run in it—as long as his strength held out—could even dance in it.

Today’s dance would be brief.

He expected to strike the first blow. Not to wait for the enemy to strike was the hardest lesson to teach to the young trainees. Whatever advantage you gained from learning how the enemy fought was negated by the fact that you’d taken the first hit.

Vieliessar did not wait. As he was still walking toward her, she sprang forward. She did not bring her blade down from above as if she were chopping wood—an attack which would have given Rithdeliel precious seconds of warning—but swept it up from below as he was still registering the movement.

He caught the blow on his shield. The force of the impact jarred down his spine. He turned the parry into an attack, aiming a midline strike at her ribs, where dozens of narrow plates gave the armor flexibility at the cost of strength. Anywhere your body flexes is where you should attack your opponent. The lecture he had delivered to thousands of children of Caerthalien, Farcarinon, and Oronviel played through his mind as his blade rang and slid over hers—parry, disengage—and each of them sprang back. Fighting mounted, the blade’s length was an advantage. On foot, it meant they could not close with one another.

The next exchanges came punishingly fast, blade meeting blade, meeting armor, the blows ringing out like the hammer of the smith at the forge. A part of his mind registered the noise of the crowd ebbing away to silence. They had expected a swift butchery. He was Rithdeliel of Oronviel, Warlord to Thoromarth Oronviel. Bruised vanity made him redouble the speed and fury of his attacks.

He would not think of what he had learned in these scant minutes in the arena. He was a master of war, his skills honed for centuries, honed by a thousand battles.

She was his match.

There are things I have not taught you yet!

He turned to catch her blade, not on the face of his lower shield, but behind it, trapping it between the lip of the shield and his metal gauntlet. Such a maneuver was risky: the sword would shear through the bolts holding the shield in place if they took the full force of the blow. This move was nothing one would use in battle, but a duelist’s maneuver. A trick for entertaining one’s comrades. I remember Serenthon, bright as a new blade, conceding his defeat at Nataranweiya’s hands.…

Rithdeliel had spent his life assembling miracles. Only one time had he failed. Now he caught Vieliessar’s blade, let it slip behind his shield to catch and hold, let it slide past him as he swept forward. He flung his sword into the air, and the moment it left his free hand, he struck her on the side of her helm with all the power in his clenched fist, then seized his weapon as it fell.

She staggered backward, stunned, and her fouled blade grated free. He moved forward to press his advantage as she lowered her guard—

Her sword whipped up. If she’d tried any conventional attack, Rithdeliel’s strike would have slammed home, but she set the point of her blade against his chestplate and shoved. There was a moment’s ear-hurting squeal as the sword’s point skated harmlessly over the surface of his armor as he staggered back. Then she was on the attack once more, her blade moving so fast—a dozen attacks, a dozen feints, a dozen counters—that it was impossible to see and assess each one. Instinct—the bone-bred knowledge of every strike that could be delivered by an armored warrior—let Rithdeliel meet each attack. But his advantage was gone now—if it had ever truly existed. She was forcing him inexorably backward across the soft loose earth of the arena. He tried to shift her, to turn her, without success. She directed her attacks to his sword-hand, so he must meet them with his blade rather than prepare a counter.

She was magnificent. He wanted to shout to the watching crowd that this, this was how Farcarinon offered battle.

He wanted to tell her to disengage, to flee while she could save herself, for Thoromarth had sworn no binding oath to spare her life.

Rithdeliel must kill her. He no longer thought it would be easy.

He dropped his blade and grabbed her sword between his metal-banded palms, keeping his hands flat, for to clasp the blade as one clasped a swordhilt was to lose fingers. He twisted the weapon as he pulled her toward him; she released her grip abruptly and Rithdeliel staggered back a half-step as she dived for his abandoned blade. It took him only a heartbeat to get his hands around the hilt of the sword he held. By then Vieliessar was on the attack again.

In just these few moments the engagement had changed from an execution to a battle. Now it became a contest of endurance and strength. The time for flamboyant attacks and risky counters was over. She struck with the flat of her blade, not from any desire to spare him, but because the flat would deliver more force without bouncing away. Even now she did not attempt any of the conventional strikes—she struck at hip, at thigh, at shin until his body ached and his legs became treacherous. Each time he attacked, she moved inside his guard, robbing his blows of their power.

But her success could not last forever. With his last strength, Rithdeliel sprang backward and aimed a lethal, two-handed swing at her shoulder. She could not get her blade up to counter in time—she spun, turning her back to him for a vital moment in order to catch the blow on her shoulder-shield. Off balance when the blow landed, she was knocked from her feet and fell to the earth.

He stepped forward as she rolled to her back. She would not be able to rise before he delivered the killing blow.

She didn’t try to escape. Instead, she swept her blade sideways and struck him between greave and sabaton with all the force she could. It was a blow that could not be struck on the field, for in war, knights did not fight afoot. And so the join between leg and foot was but lightly armored, meant to be defended by the sheltering metal of the stirrup.

Here, on the field below Oronviel Great Keep, it was a crippling blow. White-hot pain in his shattered ankle made him check his strike. Vieliessar drew her knees up to her chest and kicked out powerfully, knocking him away. The damaged ankle would not bear his weight and Rithdeliel went sprawling.

Up, you fool—get up!

On her feet by then, Vieliessar stamped on his wrist with all her weight, then kicked his sword away. She dropped to her knees beside him.

“Yield!” she demanded, her voice low and urgent.

He shook his head mutely. He was Oronviel’s champion. He could not yield.

She dragged him to his knees, kneeling on his calves in a grinding squeal of metal against metal and wrenching his helm from his head. The sun was bright. It did not seem to have moved at all in the time their battle had taken. Her fingers clenched in his hair as she pulled his head back. He felt the whisper of her dagger at his throat.

“I have defeated your champion, Thoromarth of Oronviel! Yield to me your lands!” she shouted.

There was a moment of frozen silence; then Thoromarth laughed.

“Go ahead and slit his throat if you like! You have not won until I say you have!” he called back.

Rithdeliel braced himself to die, his only regret being he would not see how this ended. Then he felt the edge of the dagger leave his throat. A moment later he saw it glitter in mid-air. She had thrown the weapon at Thoromarth.

There was a flare of bright violet light as Eiron Lightbrother swept up his hand to Shield his lord. Rithdeliel had seen Mage Shield cast many times in skirmishes with the Beastlings; it was permitted when the enemy was not komen.

When it struck the Shield, the dagger should have dropped away as if it had been flung against stone.

It did not.

The blade hung in the air as if it were caught in a spider’s web. Around it, Eiron’s spell flared as bright as flame, but though the dagger was caught in his spell, it was not held. Dazzling amethyst fire spread outward from the dagger until the whole shape of the shield could be seen, surrounding Lord Thoromarth and trapping him in his seat. The dagger slowly slid forward.

“I have won,” Vieliessar repeated implacably.

“Kill her!” Thoromarth shouted.

Rithdeliel could see the faces of all who sat within the viewing box. They could not decide whether to flee—and have to face Thoromarth’s anger when this was over—or stay where they were lest they become the next target. Princess Mialvialla rose to her feet and flung her own dagger. It veered sharply, turning in the air like a bird in flight, and buried itself in the soft earth. Magery. She uses Magery in battle … Rithdeliel thought numbly. Princess Mialvialla gave a harsh cry of fury, looking around for other weapons.

The dagger inched closer.

“Who are you?” Thoromarth demanded, seeing no one would—could—carry out his order. If Thoromarth’s voice held fear, Eiron Lightbrother looked as if he gazed upon his own death.

The silver helm hit the ground a few feet away from where Rithdeliel knelt.

“I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, and I have come to claim your lands, your armies, and your fealty—or this day I will take your life and the lives of all who will not pledge to me!”

Thoromarth was invisible now behind the wall of violet flame, and the dagger embedded in the spell could no longer be seen.

Suddenly the world went dim and wine-colored as a second Mage Shield surrounded Rithdeliel and Vieliessar. It flared and dazzled brightly—he did not know why, for he could see no missile, no weapon, yet it was obvious that the Lightborn standing in the crowd must have attempted to obey their lord. The metal taste of terror filled his mouth at the thought of two Lightborn battling. What spells, what horrors, would they unleash?

“Abomination!” Eiron shouted. “You betray the Covenant!”

“I do not do battle by the Light, Eiron Lightbrother!” Vieliessar cried out. “But I will have what I have won! Your life or your pledge, Thoromarth Oronviel!”

She will have to kill him, Rithdeliel thought in sudden cold fear. He could not imagine what would happen then. How many would she have to kill today? Mialvialla will not give up her inheritance—

The Mage Shield that protected the two of them crackled and flared again. And held fast.

“I yield! I yield!” Thoromarth shouted suddenly. “I yield! You have won my domain in fair challenge!”

The unnatural, spell-driven light vanished.

“Come, then, and swear to me before the sight of all,” Vieliessar demanded.

As Eiron helped the once-lord of Oronviel to his feet, Rithdeliel could see the blood that welled from the wound in Lord Thoromarth’s throat.

It is a good beginning. It is not the whole.

It was nearly midnight before Vieliessar was able to dismiss Thoromarth’s servants—hers now—from her bedchamber, and with them, the last of the Court who wished to know the answer to just one question, or two, or three.

One remained behind.

“I would have honesty of you,” Vieliessar said to Thoromarth. True Speech could tell her the tenor of his mind, but only if he thought of what she wished to know, and Lord Thoromarth was not an introspective man.

“I have given you honesty since I gave you my oath,” Thoromarth answered.

“I slew your lady wife, your heir, and three more of your children,” Vieliessar said bluntly. “Your own Chief Lightborn would not accept me as Prince. Yet you seem content to follow where once you led.”

“Am I a lackwit?” Thoromarth demanded sharply. He sighed deeply, recognizing this was not a true answer. “And my loyalty is a chain about your throat, for Eiron will not be alone in thinking I am bespelled to surrender my domain. Yet I have pledged to serve Oronviel above all things until Amrethion Aradruiniel returns, and to this oath I am faithful.”

“Today you might have taken your death, and known Princess Mialvialla would have demanded I prove my challenge against her in turn.”

“I have always believed that the Silver Hooves shape our fates,” Thoromarth said heavily. “Warriors die in battle gladly, knowing we will ride the night wind forever. I should have trusted Them, and taken the challenge you made. But I did not. In my heart I thought I could sacrifice Rithdeliel, who served me as faithfully as he served Farcarinon. If he died, I would then have you slain. If he lived, you would be dead, and I would still rule. And Oronviel would have peace.”

“An odd desire for a War Prince,” Vieliessar said.

“What do I gain from war? You will know as well as I that Caerthalien and Aramenthiali have nibbled at my borders for centuries, allying themselves with any who would aid them. As did I. As will you. And why? Because it is all we know. Let Caerthalien’s lands—or Aramenthiali’s—stretch from the shore of Great Ocean to the Grand Windsward, and what changes? Nothing. We fight for glory and for sport, and any who does not wish to do so must buy peace in the blood of his own children. My Nanduil, who should have been heir after me, lies hostage in Caerthalien. Aramenthiali sent me Daustifalal to wed, and by that marriage I secured the east for a season. Perhaps it was my hope that, in pledging to serve you, I could make your rule an easier thing. And there would still be peace.”

She reached out and covered his hand with her own. “I swear this to you, Thoromarth of Oronviel. Though I pledge Oronviel to war, I do not go to war for glory or for sport. When I have gained victory, I promise you peace from Great Sea Ocean to Graythunder Glairyrill.”

“How can anyone make such a vow?” Thoromarth said slowly.

Vieliessar smiled faintly. “Follow me and see.”

Three days later, Vieliessar left Lord Gunedwaen to hold Oronviel Keep and rode out at the head of fifty of her new-sworn knights. She wore neither the red otter of Oronviel, crowned and garlanded as befit its War Prince, nor Farcarinon’s silver wolf. Except for the quality of the destrier she rode—an animal truly fit for a prince—she was as anonymous as any of her knights. Sorodiarn pranced playfully as Vieliessar led her knights down the road that led from the keep. She sat the mare’s back as easily as if she had been born it. So many of the things she did now came to her with ease, as if she remembered something she’d once known well, rather than as new skills she had to learn.

She would never permit anyone to know how much it frightened her.

“We cannot permit this!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel spoke as if her wish could make a thing reality.

“My lady, I am certain that—” Carangil Lightbrother stopped, as if even he could not say what he was certain of.

“Well, don’t just stare at me, you cloudwit!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel turned away in frustration, seeking fresh prey. “We must invade Oronviel!”

“Now?” Runacarendalur strode into the chamber, his hair still disheveled from his interrupted morning’s ride. “May I remind you, my lady mother, that it is Rade Moon, not Sword? And if you mean my lord father to invade one of our treaty vassals out of season, I think you might have summoned me to your council.”

Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s dressing chamber was crowded: not only was Carangil Lightbrother, her personal Mage, present, but several of Runacarendalur’s brothers and sisters. Only War Prince Bolecthindial Caerthalien—of those who might reasonably be thought to have an interest in any war of Caerthalien’s—was absent.

Runacarendalur tossed his rain-spattered cloak over the nearest chair and leaned back against the wall. Ivrulion was wearing his blandest expression—one Runacarendalur had mistrusted from infancy—and Gimragiel was (as usual) falling over himself to match or even exceed their mother’s fury.

“How can you treat this as if it is some jest?” the Ladyholder demanded. “This treacherous viper— This outlaw, oathbreaker, this— Who knows what she will do? One of the Lightborn setting herself up as War Prince!”

“It’s impossible.” Princess Angiothiel spoke with as much conviction as her mother had.

“Yet it seems to have happened,” Runacarendalur pointed out. “And apparently old Thoromarth is still alive. I’m sure he’ll convince her to honor his treaties.”

“We should crush them,” Prince Gimragiel announced.

Runacarendalur sighed. “Yes, Ragi, of course we should,” he said patiently. “As soon as they do something. Our treaty with Oronviel does not require her to consult with us over changes to her ruling house.”

“She is Farcarinon,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel hissed.

Farcarinon is gone. Runacarendalur didn’t bother to say so, nor did he say it was likely that Vieliessar, having been raised at Caerthalien until her twelfth year, might be more trustworthy than Thoromarth. It would only prolong the argument.

The news of the change in Oronviel’s fortunes had reached Caerthalien two days before. War Prince Atholfol Ivrithir had sent an envoy. Lord Bolecthindial had received her privately, then summoned Runacarendalur so she could repeat her message. Runacar shouldn’t be surprised that Ladyholder Glorthiachiel knew the messenger’s news: half the Court probably did by now. The tale was like something crafted by a storysinger: at Harvest Court, an unknown knight had challenged Thoromarth for his lands. She had defeated Thoromarth’s Warlord and champion and revealed herself to be Vieliessar Lightsister.

And that, Runacarendalur thought, is where matters become complicated. For Vieliessar Lightsister’s life was forfeit outside the bounds of the Sanctuary of the Star. More, after she had fled the Sanctuary, the Astromancer had ordered all the Lightborn of the land to seek her. Well and good, and no problem for any but the Lightborn.

But when Vieliessar Lightsister became War Prince Vieliessar Oronviel …

What then?

For a Green Robe to set aside Magery was as much a storysinger’s tale as War Princes being challenged for their lands. “’Rulion,” Runcarendalur said suddenly, cutting into the conversations going on around him, “has anyone ever stopped being a Green Robe?”

Ivrulion regarded him with faint suspicion. “It is not something you stop,” he said pedantically. “Yet—yes, there have been Lightborn who set aside their Magery. You will recall the story of Ternas of Celebros.”

“No,” Runacarendalur said simply, and Ivrulion grimaced.

“Ternas Lightbrother was one of the sons of War Prince Farathir Celebros. All others in the Line Direct were killed, save the greatson of Farathir’s heir, Prince Methestel. Ternas became Methestel’s guardian; when Methestel Heir-Prince was slain on his wedding day, Ternas renounced his Light to became War Prince. It was a very long time ago.”

“What has that to do with anything?” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel demanded.

“It is precedent,” Runacarendalur said. “If Vieliessar wishes to cease to be Lightborn, there is no proscription.”

“Words, words, words!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel snapped impatiently. “I suppose you will say next that there is no proscription against her conquering Caerthalien!”

“None—save the same reason Thoromarth never has. Oronviel cannot muster an army of sufficient size. I suppose they might have done it before this spring, if Thoromarth had been willing to empty his treasury, but we have made that impossible.”

“At the cost of raids and banditry,” Gimragiel said sullenly.

“I shall be certain to tell Father he must consult you before planning his next campaign,” Runacarendalur purred. “I am certain your strategies are equal to your generalship.”

Gimragiel shouted in fury and clutched his belt knife. Ciliphirilir jumped to her feet and shrieked as if she were the one being threatened. Angiothiel’s hikuliasa bounced toward her, barking happily. Ivrulion stepped between Runacarendalur and Gimragiel. “This solves nothing, brothers,” he said reprovingly.

“It brings us back to the question at hand,” Runacarendalur said, walking over to retrieve his cloak. “If Vieliessar chooses to become War Prince—as she might have done if her father had not been a fool—what must Caerthalien do? And not only is that a matter for Lord Bolecthindial to decide, but I remind you all: no one goes to war in winter. Especially in a winter where we shall be much harried by outlaws.”

The Harrowing of Farcarinon had already begun to bear its bitter fruit, and Runacarendalur could only hope the outlaws would soon retreat to their winter camps to give Caerthalien time to prepare its defense.

“So we are to wait for the spring, to give Serenthon’s whelp time to craft her revenge!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said.

“If she sought vengeance, Mother, she would have taken it the moment she took the Green Robe,” Runacarendalur pointed out.

“You sound as if you are her defender!” Princess Angiothiel said with an angry giggle.

“Never that.” Runacarendalur turned toward his sister and gave her a mocking bow. “I am merely realistic. And if we are to fight Oronviel come War Season, be sure I shall win our victory.” He turned, bowing this time to Ladyholder Glorthiachiel. “But that decision has not yet been reached.”

“Do you think she merely wishes to rule Oronviel?”

Ivrulion caught up to him before he reached the staircase. Runacarendalur had suspected he would. It was unkind to say Ivrulion spied on his brothers and sisters—and their mother—but it was probably no more than the truth. He and his children were outside the succession unless all the other possible heirs to Caerthalien died first—and that was some two hundred of the Lords Komen. And yet … Ivrulion had been raised as heir-prince until the day he had been sent to the Sanctuary. There were times Runacarendalur wondered if Ivrulion thought it a fair trade.

“Possibly,” Runacarendalur said. Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s voice could still be heard, faintly, in the distance. “Think, brother. Vieliessar did not go to the Sanctuary because the Light had been Called in her. She went to break the Peacebond Celelioniel Astromancer had laid upon her at birth. Because she was Farcarinon. Father had no choice in that. If he wed her to Huthiel—or any other of the Line—we would have had everyone from Aramenthiali to Daroldan at our throats.”

“Yet the Light came to her,” Ivrulion said.

“Something no one could have predicted—did you? Did Carangil? Did Seragindill? But even the Green Robe could not win freedom for her. I think her captivity weighed heavy enough that she chose the only path to freedom there was.”

“A domain on our border,” Ivrulion pointed out.

“A domain holding as many from Farcarinon as ours, or Aramenthiali, or Cirandeiron, or Telthorelandor. No doubt some of Serenthon’s vassals remembered old loyalties and helped her to possess Oronviel.” Runacarendalur shrugged. “Oronviel shares no border with Farcarinon, at least. Tell Father to send some envoy to her, to see if she means to abide by Thoromarth’s treaty with us. If not—” He shrugged again. “War.”

“War indeed,” Ivrulion said, with a thin, cold smile. “Enjoy the day, brother.” He bowed slightly, then turned and strode away.

I believe I shall, brother. I believe I shall pay a call on Domcariel, and ask him why he was not invited to Mother’s improvised council of war. Of course, I wasn’t invited either—but I believe the knowledge that she held one will come as a great surprise to Dom. And he can be reliably predicted to run to Father with the news.…

To win in the Challenge Circle was a skill entirely different from commanding an army, and if War Prince Vieliessar did not lead her own army—at least for a campaign or two—she would not hold Oronviel by next Harvest. The idea of going to war against such an innocent was appealing. Far less appealing was the specter of war within Caerthalien. Ladyholder Glorthiachiel had led armies, and her hatred of Serenthon Farcarinon had not diminished with his death. Such hatred had been known to ripen into warfare, and her first opponent must be Bolecthindial. A House, so weakened, would be easy prey for its enemies. Better Lord Bolecthindial know at once how his lady’s temper lay, and if he chose to do what best pleased her, then they would be at one, and Caerthalien the stronger for it.

Cheered by the pleasant prospect of the coming War Season, Runacarendalur went in search of Prince Domcariel.