Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE HIGH KING’S ARMY

The queen came riding and sang the song of freedom,

The queen came riding and truth was on her tongue.

The High cried out against it, but truth was on her tongue.

Truth forever. Landbond free.

—Tunonil Landbond,

The Song of Freedom

Before she had left on her strange autumnal Progress, Vieliessar had spoken to all those Lightborn who remained at Oronviel, telling them they were free to go or to stay, and that she would place no restriction upon their use of the Light so long as they remained faithful to Mosirinde’s Covenant.

Many had gone—if not out of Oronviel, then at least back to their families—and some of the castel nobles had complained bitterly, for there were so few Lightborn remaining that their spells were occupied on necessary tasks, not in finding a lost glove or keeping bathwater hot. Finding no ally in their new War Prince, some had summoned their own Lightborn from their estates, only to discover that the War Prince’s decree had gone before them, and those Lightborn who had not left their lands could not be spared.

Others had accepted the new rules with good humor, for if Vieliessar lightened the yoke of custom that weighted the necks of the commons, she lightened it for her nobles as well. No longer did her lords need to fear their horses, jewels, servants, or estates would be seized because their prince or one of her favorites desired it. No longer did they fear to be punished—or banished—for rumor or lies.

And most unbelievable of all, any who wished were free to depart Oronviel, taking with them all their possessions and any of their people who went with them freely. Generations of war, ransoms, and treaty marriages had left many of the noble families scattered across two or three domains, or five, and among such families, blood ties warred with fealty oaths.

It was slow work to spread her new truths across the land, but all who left Oronviel, noble or servile, spoke of them. The Lightborn spoke to their fellows in other domains, and the crofters who lived along the borders had closer ties with the next steading, whether it lay in Caerthalien, Aramenthiali, or Ivrithir, than they did with their distant lieges. The word of all they would gain when Vieliessar Oronviel became High King passed through Oronviel and then across her borders.

Prince Vieliessar means to be High King. She will be a friend to all who fight for her, and when she is High King, she will hold no grudge against those who did not.

When Vieliessar is High King there will be a Code of Peace. One justice for all, be they highborn or low, not rewards for some and punishments for others.

When Vieliessar is High King, domain will not war with domain, for all domains will be one.

When Vieliessar is High King, the Lightborn will not be taken from their families and hoarded as a glutton hoards grain. They will go where they will and do as they wish. Nor will any children be forced to the Sanctuary against their will.

When Vieliessar is High King, lords will not steal from vassals, from craftworkers, from Landbonds—

When Vieliessar is High King, any with skill may become a knight, or a weaver, or a smith—

When Vieliessar is High King, any may own a horse, or a hound, or a sword—

When Vieliessar is High King …

The other War Princes counted the taille of Oronviel’s knights and thought it the whole of her army.

Her army was the whole of the people of Oronviel.

“Here is where we begin.” Vieliessar rubbed the drawing-chalk between her fingers. Rithdeliel’s workroom in Oronviel Great Keep was a vast space. One wall was covered with tallyboards listing manor-knights and the number of knights-at-arms they could muster. The center of the room held three enormous tables. One could be covered in sand so that the deployment of forces could be tried before orders were passed to the Lords Komen. The other two held maps. She glanced at the men and women around the map table. Rithdeliel, Gunedwaen, Thoromarth. Princess Nothrediel, Thoromarth’s daughter, who was the new Cadet Warlord; Aradreleg Lightsister, who was the new Chief Lightborn; Hanniach, knight-captain of the castel knights.

Gazing down at the map before her, Vieliessar thought of the first time she had entered the Great Library of Arevethmonion. The path she had begun that day had led here. She traced her finger along Oronviel’s marked border. “How much of the border is disputed?”

Rithdeliel laughed. “All of it, Lord Vieliessar. It is the nature of borders.”

“And how far can we go across this … disputed border before we are noticed?”

Gunedwaen cleared his throat. “That depends on why we go.”

“To secure the land. Here is what is in my mind. My knights will ride through Oronviel as if on progress, each troop under its accustomed captain, and Lightborn will ride with them. They will come, if I do not ask them to prison themselves in the Great Keep once more, if I tell them I send them to Farmhold, croft, and steading to do what seems good to them. My knights will seek out every smallholding, and there the Lightborn will hear of taxes and tithes. They will go also to the Landbonds and hear their words, and such spellcraft as is needed, they will perform. They will discover the habitations of bandits and outlaws. My komen will take such creatures prisoner and bring them to me for judgment.”

She paused. Gunedwaen looked worried. Hanniach looked doubtful. Rithdeliel looked as if he was storing up objections. “In addition to these tasks, they will find for me every youth or maiden who seeks knightly arms, no matter their degree. These, too, they will bring to me here, so they may be instructed. These tasks they will perform throughout Oronviel.” She set the chalk to the map, redrawing Oronviel’s borders with a few swift strokes, and in moments she had doubled its size. “These are the borders of our domain. All within it shall know they may look to Oronviel for safety.”

“That is an … audacious … undertaking, my prince,” Hanniach said, dubiously.

“It can’t be done,” Princess Nothrediel said flatly.

“It can,” Vieliessar answered.

“To take territory without warfare … it is an interesting idea,” Rithdeliel said, measuring his words carefully. “And yet, it is in my mind that such small forces as you propose to dispatch on this ‘progress’ will be easy prey for a larger force. If you must ransom every knight in your domain not once, but a dozen times during War Season, Oronviel will be impoverished by Harvest.”

“But I do not mean them to ride during summer,” Vieliessar said reasonably. “I mean them to begin now.”

“Ride to war in winter?” Rithdeliel said, aghast.

Gunedwaen laughed. “You are not thinking to win a war with the loyalty of Landbond and smallholder, are you?” he scoffed.

Vieliessar did not answer directly. “Aradreleg, where were you born?” she asked.

“On Willowleaf Farm,” she answered, sounding puzzled. “My father is overseer there.”

“Who rides to war without Lightborn, Gunedwaen?” Vieliessar asked next.

“Idiots,” Gunedwaen said. “But—”

“We win wars now with the loyalty of Landbond and smallholder,” Vieliessar said. “We send their children to the Sanctuary, and then we take them to war. High House or Low, we gather the Lightborn of our domains to us and hold them close.”

“But—” Rithdeliel said, and stopped.

“We do it because it is our right,” Vieliessar finished for him. “And because we can win no battle without Lightborn to Heal our wounds, light our pavilions, gentle our horses, keep our food from spoiling, and a hundred other tasks. You say that Farmholder and Landbond care not who holds the land they work. I say: give them cause to care, and they will. Return their children to them, provide them with the safety and comfort that Magery affords, and they will give us a land at peace.”

“Until someone comes over the border to put an end to it,” Thoromarth said.

“Until then,” Vieliessar agreed, nodding. “But no army fights in winter, as you say. Let us use this winter to secure Oronviel.”

“By raiding beyond our borders,” Rithdeliel said, touching his finger to the chalk marks on the map.

“All borders are disputed,” Vieliessar reminded him. “Come Sword Moon, our neighbors will find their lands less than they once thought.”

“What has this mad plan of yours to do with…?” Gunedwaen asked after Vieliessar had dismissed the others to begin turning her ideas into reality.

“Everything,” she said. “I will build an army. I will push Oronviel’s borders as far as I may before anyone objects or even notices. If I hold the farms and make them safe, I hold the loyalty of the Lightborn who come from them. Next I shall take Ivrithir and Araphant: both are clients of Caerthalien, as Oronviel is. Ivrithir is small, and Araphant has a dotard for a War Prince.”

“Caerthalien and Aramenthiali will ally,” Gunedwaen said, speaking slowly and carefully, as if presenting information she lacked. “Oronviel cannot defeat such an alliance on the field.”

“Are you certain?” Vieliessar asked. “Wait and see.”

When she had been a Candidate, a Servant, a Postulant, and even Lightborn at the Sanctuary of the Star, Vieliessar had read voraciously—for pleasure, for knowledge, for an escape from the grey stone walls which were all she had ever expected to know. Her studies served her in good stead now, for Arevethmonion’s holdings were unmatched—and, for most of her time, uncensored. She had eagerly devoured accounts written by the Lightborn who had stood near for every princely council—tales not edited to flatter or excuse, for no lord would ever read them.

When Vieliessar had come upon mention of Farcarinon in such accounts, she had read them closely, for none of Farcarinon had survived to write their own versions. It did not matter that Farcarinon’s Lightborn had survived her fall: they had taken oaths to other Houses. But from Arevethmonion’s scrolls, she had pieced together the tale no one was alive to tell.

Serenthon Farcarinon’s ambitious weaving had begun even as War Prince Hiathuint, his father, lay upon his deathbed. Nearly a full score of decades had passed before its true shape could be discerned, a gossamer net of alliance, promise, and dream that tangled all the Houses of the West, great and less, in its strands.

Farcarinon’s first and staunchest ally had been Caerthalien. Aramenthiali and Telthorelandor stood apart, Cirandeiron bent this way and that like a young tree in a storm, first yielding to Serenthon’s wooing, next recollecting her ancient dignity.

When Caerthalien betrayed Farcarinon and allied with Aramenthiali and Telthorelandor—and Cirandeiron rushed to join them—many of Farcarinon’s allies fled. Others held fast until battle was inevitable, then sued for terms of surrender. Still others had stood fast until the day of the battle itself. Ivrithir had stood with Farcarinon until the morning of the battle, and no one could now say whether that was because Atholfol Ivrithir had been loyal until the last hope was gone, or merely wished to time his betrayal to the moment it would do Farcarinon the greatest harm. Nor did Vieliessar care. She had learned the lesson her father had not lived to learn. By the time her army took the field, she would have rendered it impossible for them to betray her.

The forest grew, thick and old, all across the border. It would have been impossible to tell where one domain ended and the next began save for the marker stone in the clearing, bespelled with Silverlight so that it glowed softly in the twilight gloom beneath the trees. As Vieliessar approached it, she saw a lone rider moving through the trees to meet her.

So far all goes in accordance with my desire.…

Atholfol Ivrithir was more than two-thirds through his allotted span of years, and he had held Ivrithir for most of that time, for a War Prince’s heir often came to rule early in life. His youngest child, Heir-Princess Caragond, could expect to burn her father’s bones and take his sword no more than three centuries hence—and far less, were Atholfol unlucky.

“Well met, Oronviel,” he said, swinging down from the back of his destrier. “I confess, I did not think you would come.”

“Neither did my household,” she answered, vaulting from Sorodiarn’s back. “Or, rather, they wished I would not.”

Atholfol smiled thinly. “Yet here we both are. You wish me to void the treaty I have sworn with Caerthalien in order to ally with Oronviel as I once did with Farcarinon. I ask you this: where is Ivrithir’s advantage in doing so?”

“If you wish an end to pointless war, your advantage is great. I shall be High King whether you aid me or no, yet I ask your help.”

“What help can I give?” Atholfol answered mockingly, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of harmlessness. “Ivrithir is small and poor—the indemnities I have paid to Caerthalien since the day Farcarinon fell have seen to that.”

“I do not have the patience for this,” Vieliessar answered, her voice edged. “You are inclined to this alliance, or you would not be here. What I want from Ivrithir is your army—all of it. Supplies, mounts, your Lightborn, your pledge to support Oronviel in all things, passage across your borders for my people, and all those brigands taken in your lands to be turned over to Oronviel for my justice.”

There was a moment of silence. “Perhaps I should name you my heir and vow my lands to you at once?” Atholfol asked. “I still see no advantage to Ivrithir in any of this.”

“You will no longer have to tithe Caerthalien a tenth-part of your harvests and your cattle,” Vieliessar said in a voice of mock-innocence, and Atholfol laughed.

“Hardly sufficient! When your father came wooing me, he promised me greater lands, a share of the wealth of those Houses we cast down, and a place upon his council.”

“And I will not,” Vieliessar answered. “For it was such bargains that destroyed him. I promise you three things, Atholfol Ivrithir: an end to the ceaseless warfare between House and House, a justice that runs the same for all, whether of High House or Low—and that you will not have to face my army in battle.”

“Every child looks to the future with such jeweled hopes, Lord Vieliessar. My Caragond is just the same. She swears that when she is War Prince, she will not be taken in clientage by Caerthalien, that she will take back the lands we have been forced to cede, that she will not give up her children as hostages. I said much the same, when I was her age. Such pretty dreams wither at the first touch of a swordblade.”

“And the time I dreamt the dreams of a child is long past, Lord Atholfol. We have lived a score of generations in exile, at war among ourselves, for the inability to agree on who should have the Unicorn Throne after Amrethion and Pelashia. In the west, the Beastlings seek to drive us into the sea. The south is bordered by impassable desert, the north, by mountains so high and cold that nothing can live there. The eastern lands are more embattled than the west, settled only because the alternative was extinction.” She stopped, studying him in silence for a long moment. “They speak of you as one who rejoices in war for the sport it offers. I ask you: where is the sport in the slaughter of helpless innocents? You took no new wife after Ninianael’s death. Will you see Caragond also face the day when she must sue Caerthalien, or Aramenthiali, or Cirandeiron, to receive her consort’s bones for burning?”

“When that day comes—if it does—I shall be dead long since,” Atholfol said harshly. “This is a strange wooing, Lord Vieliessar, accompanied as it is by neither gifts nor threats.”

“I do offer you a gift. I offer truth,” Vieliessar answered.

This time Atholfol roared with laughter, until he had to clutch at the cantle of his destrier’s saddle to steady himself. The animal craned its head around to regard him, ears flicking with curiosity.

“By the Hunt!” he said, when he had gained control of his mirth. “I had forgotten you were raised a Green Robe! I cannot eat truth or ride it—what use is it to me?”

Vieliessar had watched the display in silence, knowing it was at least partly an act for her benefit. “Truth is a weapon, Lord Atholfol. I offer you more truth—as a gift. The Free Companies were hunted out of Farcarinon. Such scraps as remain have turned to brigandage. Those outlaws who would once have joined Free Companies and been kept to discipline now have no place to offer their services save to bandits. Nor can Ivrithir, or Oronviel, or any other Less House hire the services of that which does not exist. But that is not the truth I offer—it is a poor thing, and you must know it yourself. What I offer is this: consider the alliance that made it possible.

“A century and more ago Farcarinon was erased and no retribution followed. My present ambitions are known. The Twelve will move to erase Oronviel next. Suppose they succeeded—though I say to you they will not. You know as well as I that no dog’s appetite is slaked by one meal. The High Houses would learn that they might expand their lands at the expense of those who cannot stand against them. Not this year. Not even while you yet live. But the day would come when Ivrithir, too, was erased, or forced to flee eastward to the Grand Windsward in hopes of establishing a domain there with what scraps it had retained in its flight.”

“You will not terrify me with fearful nursery tales, Lord Vieliessar,” Atholfol scoffed.

“How should I, when I have said you will not live to see the day? But once there were a Hundred Houses, and each War Prince possessed an equal claim to the Unicorn Throne. That is why we fight, you know,” she added kindly. “Then the Grand Alliance did the unthinkable and now there are only Ninety-and-Nine. With Oronviel’s erasure there would be Ninety-and-Eight. Do you think it would not occur to the High Houses that by eliminating the Less Houses they can claim wealth, armies, and land—and eliminate rivals for the High Kingship?”

Plainly Atholfol did not like what he heard, but he was too stubborn to admit it. “Less Houses have risen up before—what care I if fifty Lines are erased, if Ivrithir is not? You ask for an alliance and offer nothing but dreams and promises. Think you I do not know Oronviel’s muster to the last maiden knight? You do not have sufficient forces to take Ivrithir in the field, let alone a Great House.”

Vieliessar smiled. “Do you think you know the full force I can summon to my call? I tell you this as a further gift, since you must be wooed as if you are a blushing child. I will take all who will swear fealty to me—the raiders who harry your borders, the craftworkers who flee your harsh justice, the Landbonds you tithe into starvation. I shall forge them into a weapon. And I shall take up that weapon, and win.”

“Oronviel cannot stand against the Twelve,” Atholfol said flatly.

“You speak of the Twelve in alliance and call me a dreamer of storysinger’s dreams?” Vieliessar mocked. “Caerthalien will come to slay me and all who swore to me. They will bring with them Princess Nanduil of Oronviel, who has been hostage at their court since before she cut her first teeth, and her they will make War Prince. That is their plan, at least. It will not work.”

“Why not?” Atholfol asked. He seemed torn between curiosity and disbelief.

“You have not agreed to an alliance,” Vieliessar answered.

“You offer a storysinger’s tale of peace and justice, but conjure Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor as you will, what you truly offer is death.”

“Is it?” Vieliessar asked. “Perhaps it seems so to you. Tell me, Lord Atholfol, what does an army need in order to fight?”

“Knights, horses, supply trains, Lightborn—” Atholfol began.

Vieliessar silenced him with a gesture. “No. They need to believe they can win. And to want the victory.

“When you ride to battle, your Landbonds pray you will not fight across their fields. Your craftworkers pray you will not demand the impossible and punish them when they cannot achieve it. Your komentai’a pray they will find favor in your eyes when the time comes for their ransom to be paid. Your Lightborn pray their shields will hold, and their strength will be great enough to Heal the bodies you ruin for a season’s entertainment.” She gazed at him for a long moment; the only sound was the wind rustling through the branches above them. “When I ride to battle, it will not be for sport. And no soul I hold within my hand shall be left to the mercy of my enemies.”

“You mean to arm your Landbonds,” Atholfol said slowly. “They will not fight for you. And even if they would, the Code of Battle—”

“—is a toy. I set my toys aside long ago. I will arm my Landbonds, and my Landholders, and my craftworkers. They will fight for me. All in the Fortunate Lands whom you in your wastrel lives have cast aside will fight for me, for I will offer them justice.”

“An army of rabble and outlaws,” Atholfol said, but he sounded uncertain for the first time. “They will never prevail against trained knights.”

“Come against us and see. Though if you join us, you will probably get a better view,” she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

“I … believe I shall,” Atholfol said slowly. “If only to see that haughty pup Runacarendalur’s face when he realizes he is to take the field against hayforks and blacksmith’s hammers.” He let out a deep breath, as if he had been holding it for much longer than they’d stood here. “Very well. Alliance. Safe passage across my borders; my army to call. I am not certain I can promise the brigands, though. My komentai’a are used to executing them as they find them.”

“No matter,” Vieliessar answered lightly. “Send your knights to me and I will instruct them properly. And so that your lands do not lie undefended, I shall send my army to you, to keep your borders and bring me your outlaws.”

“You truly mean to do this,” Atholfol said, as if only now realizing it.

“I do,” Vieliessar answered.

“Very well. We have no Lightborn here, but once they were not needed for the swearing of oaths.” He drew the dagger from his belt and pulled off his heavy leather hunting gloves. Holding the blade steady, he scored a long even gash across the palm of his hand, then held the blade out to her.

The kiss of the steel against her skin was first cold, then burning. She held out her hand, and he clasped it.

“Vieliessar Oronviel, I renounce my claim upon the Unicorn Throne and swear that while I yet draw breath I shall do all that lies within my power to deliver it into your hand,” Atholfol said.

“Atholfol Ivrithir, I take your oath, and for this pledge of loyalty I swear I will not allow you to lie unransomed in the halls of my enemies, nor languish a prisoner in their dungeons, nor permit your body to be dishonored in death.”

They stood a moment longer, hands clasped, then Atholfol let go and stepped back. “I suppose I should go and tell Bedreithir Warlord she will not be spending the winter beneath the comfort of her own roof. You may expect the first of my levies within the sennight.”

“I shall leave them escort at Torchwood,” she answered. “You are welcome to come yourself, of course,” she added, knowing the offer would not be accepted.

“I think it will be more entertaining to keep Bolecthindial in suspense some while longer. I believe he wishes to try Lady Dendinirchiel’s patience next summer, and does not wish Lord Manderechiel to take overmuch notice when he moves his army across Farcarinon to reach Ullilion, for he bid me raid against Aramenthiali when War Season comes. But I am certain there will be many reasons I cannot.”

“Or it may be that you will do more than raid against Aramenthiali once a few more moonturns have passed,” Vieliessar answered, gravely pleased. “I give you good fortune, Ivrithir.”

“And to you the same, Oronviel. And may the Starry Hunt watch over us both,” Atholfol answered. He turned away then, leading his destrier back into Ivrithir. Vieliessar watched after him for a few moments before mounting Sorodiarn and riding back to where she had left Aradreleg.

Before Rade Moon was ended, Sunalanthaid Lightbrother came from the Sanctuary of the Star to demand that Oronviel surrender Vieliessar Lightsister to its justice. He was already out of temper when he reached the castel, for he had been met—before he was many miles past the border—by a troop of Oronviel knights. Despite Rithdeliel’s pessimism—and Lady Nothrediel’s declarations that the thing could not be done—the majority of Oronviel’s knights were happy to have an easing of winter’s long sennights of boredom. Hunting was their main pastime in winter, and they quickly found there was good sport to be had in hunting outlaws.

With Lightborn traveling with every troop of knights—just as Vieliessar had promised—Vieliessar could be certain of immediate information from every corner of Oronviel. She was aware of Sunalanthaid’s coming a full sennight before he arrived, and used that time to prepare to receive him. For the first time in her life she wore the elaborate finery of a noble lady: the layers of underskirts of stiffened silk, the gilded slippers, the heavy jeweled belt riding low upon her hips, the rings—including the signet of Oronviel—and the heavy bracelets. Her hair, once shorn and worn unadorned to show her status as a Mage, was still too short to braid properly, so she wore it swept back from her temples. A pair of heavy carven combs held it in place; the combs were sewn to a long length of soft, heavy silk that flowed over her shoulders and coiled about her throat.

Not one thread of any of her garments was green.

She chose to receive Sunalanthaid in her private rooms instead of the Great Hall. To do so would emphasize her status as War Prince: Hamphuliadiel had sent Sunalanthaid because he wished to display his authority over her. She had refused requests from Thoromarth, Gunedwaen, and Rithdeliel to be present: she would not receive Sunalanthaid as if he were an emissary from another House. Only Aradreleg Lightsister was present—more proof that Vieliessar feared nothing from the Sanctuary.

She had dressed her private chamber as carefully as she had dressed her body: it held her chair of rank and no other place to sit. The sideboard held wine instead of a tea brazier, and the tapestries upon the walls depicted great feats of Oronviel’s past. Beside her chair stood a table littered with scrolls and parchments—nothing Sunalanthaid could not be allowed to see, and all underscoring the truth she wished him to bear witness to: she was not Vieliessar Lightsister, but War Prince Vieliessar Oronviel.

“Lightbrother,” she said, as one of her castel guard opened the door to usher in her guest, “I trust you had a safe journey?” She stroked Striker’s long head; it was a tiny clemency from a future grown tangled and dark that the companion of Gunedwaen’s long exile had survived to enjoy a pampered old age. She watched as confusion played across Sunalanthaid’s face: he wished to argue with her—with the very fact of her—but could not decide how to begin.

It is a pity Hamphuliadiel did not send a messenger with more cleverness. Perhaps he could not find someone who was both clever and loyal.

“I am here to command your return to the Sanctuary of the Star,” Sunalanthaid said at last.

“No,” Vieliessar answered. “May I offer you a night’s rest beneath my roof before you begin your return journey? Or will you wish to leave at once?”

Sunalanthaid gaped at her for a moment. Those with power—even the reflected power of the Astromancer’s lackey—became accustomed to agreement and obedience where they had earned neither. “You can’t say that!” he finally managed to sputter.

“Within the walls of my own keep, I can say what I wish,” she answered. “I am War Prince of Oronviel by right of challenge.”

“You are not,” Sunalanthaid said, sounding plaintive. He turned toward Aradreleg. “She is a fugitive from the Sanctuary. Hamphuliadiel demands her return. At once!”

“Then let the Astromancer send his vast armies to take her,” Aradreleg said, glancing toward Vieliessar for consent before she spoke. “But first, let him say why he seeks to claim a prince of the Hundred Houses.”

“She has broken the Covenant. Her Light is forfeit,” Sunalanthaid said at last.

“Bring your witnesses to that charge, Sunalanthaid of Haldil, as I will answer them,” Vieliessar replied. Naming his House instead of using his title was rudeness, but she meant it to serve as a reminder she was no longer the Sanctuary’s servant—in any fashion. “Farcarinon was taken from me before my birth, and everyone thought I would be content to be so disparaged. But Oronviel is now mine, and I will rule over it as did Ternas Lightbrother over House Celebros in the days of Timirmar Astromancer.”

For a moment, she thought Sunalanthaid might ask her if she was telling the truth. Then his mouth firmed into a hard line. “You face serious accusations, Lightborn,” he repeated.

Vieliessar leaned forward in her chair. “Say this to Hamphuliadiel: I know both law and custom better than he. Say also that if I had taken Oronviel by unnatural means, my Lightborn would have voided my domain, and they have not.”

“Eiron—” Sunalanthaid began.

“Would not pledge fealty to me,” Vieliessar interrupted. “For that cause I banished him and a handful of others. You have come here in error, Sunalanthaid Lightbrother. I am Vieliessar Lightsister no longer. Take that word to Hamphuliadiel Astromancer when you go—and while you are my guest, do not give me cause to seek recompense from Haldil for your actions. Now leave me. I grow tired of explaining to you what you should have learned in your Postulancy.”

Watching Sunalanthaid’s openmouthed confusion, she knew for truth what she had only suspected: he had come to Oronviel believing Hamphuliadiel’s demands would be met with ready capitulation from the nobles and Lightborn of Oronviel. Perhaps he had thought to find Thoromarth ruling on her behalf, or to find her a prisoner, or to find Oronviel in open rebellion against her rule.

He had not.

“I will— I will—”

“You are tired from your journey. I would not have you set forth in such a state. Aradreleg Lightsister will conduct you to the rooms I have prepared for you.”

Aradreleg stepped toward him, and Sunalanthaid hesitantly turned to accompany her. Vieliessar could feel his confusion clearly—she would not seek to know more, not while Sunalanthaid hoped to discover her using spells to rule—and she might have pitied him, were he not so blatantly her enemy.

“Yet there is one thing I must require of you first.” Both Lightborn stopped at the sound of Vieliessar’s voice. “I am War Prince of Oronviel. You will give me the courtesy of my rank, or your stay here will be exceedingly brief.”

For a moment she thought he would refuse. But the Sanctuary was far away, and Vieliessar looked nothing like the self-effacing Lightsister who had endured Hamphuliadiel’s rebukes and punishments for so very long.

“My lord— My lady— Lord Vieliessar—” Sunalanthaid stammered. “I— Yes.”

Vieliessar raised a hand in dismissal. She took up a scroll from the table beside her, pretending to study it until she heard the door close behind them.

Rallying the people to her with the truth—a kind of truth, anyway, for she did not expect peace immediately upon her accession to the Unicorn Throne—was only one part of her strategy. Another was to rule over the land as if it were already hers.

The Great Keeps of the War Princes stood in the center of the lands they claimed. It was only sensible: such a placement would put their greatest stronghold far from their disputed borders. Even if the changing fortunes of a House had moved its borders so its keep lay nearer to one border or another, the farther one went from the Great Keep, the less settled was the land and the smaller the farms. More of the land lay under great Flower Forests or simple woodlands, until on the borders of the domain one reached the watchtowers and border keeps. These were large and heavily fortified, held by great lords who were nearly princes themselves. They kept vast meisnes of komen, and when the enemy rode across a domain’s border, it was the lords of the border keeps who first rode out against them.

But the border lords did not ride out against anything but a troop of enemy knights. It was considered dishonorable to ride to battle in disguise, and so they would go in bright silks and gleaming armor. Their passage could be seen for a great distance.

The raiders who preyed upon the outlying farms had neither bright silks nor gleaming armor, and well knew the value of concealment.

From Rade to Frost, Vieliessar met with the lords of all of her border keeps. To all of them she gave new orders: to ride to the aid of the border farmsteads when they were attacked. Many of her border lords were indignant at these commands, for they considered the border steadings to be there for little reason other than to provide sport for raiding parties from either side of the border. Vieliessar had removed some lords from their appointments and made it clear to all who remained that there would be no raiding, no brigandage, no “sport” in Oronviel.

When the border lords saw that her army patrolled as well—and saw what diversion there was in hunting brigands—Oronviel became a place of peace, not of raids and night terrors, until the pennion of Oronviel, with its red otter on a white field, brought the Farmfolk of Araphant, Ivrithir, and Laeldor—and Caerthalien and Aramenthiali as well—running to their dooryards to greet the patrols; to offer cider, bread, or honeycomb; to ask for aid.

Rithdeliel had sworn her plan would never work. Vieliessar had known it would. The komen might be proud and arrogant, but they were not immune to the experience of being greeted by the countryfolk with unfeigned pleasure and honest warmth, rather than with cold suspicion and grudging cooperation.

By Frost Moon, the land Oronviel controlled was twice again what it had been in Harvest, for once her treaty was made with Ivrithir, Vieliessar’s knights rode its bounds just as they had ridden hers. Ivrithir’s knights were no more immune to the astonishing experience of being welcomed by the Farmfolk than their brothers and sisters of Oronviel had been, and word of the alliance had run ahead of them, so the people of the borders greeted the pennion bearing Ivrithir’s tawny bear with as much enthusiasm as they’d greeted the red otter.

Hearth Moon became Frost Moon, and each day that did not bring word of armies marching toward Oronviel’s borders seemed to Vieliessar like a reprieve. There was much to do to in order to turn the impossible to the improbable. Candlemark by candlemark she lived with the temptation to change her course to one that wouldn’t seem so much like madness. There was still time to compose a document explaining how she had discovered the meaning behind The Song of Amrethion—she still had the scrap of the scroll Celelioniel had written—to ask openly for the help of the Hundred Houses against the Darkness.

No one would believe her. No matter what she did, her fellow War Princes would seek for the hidden motive, the trap, the betrayal. And even if they did not, they would still squabble over who should be War King over the combined army of the Hundred Houses just as they now battled over who was to be High King.

There is no time for that. They will not listen to argument. Only to armies.

I must have Mangiralas. Not for its destriers, but for its palfreys. If I can build an infantry, I must still get it to the battlefield. And Daroldan—not their neutrality this time, but War Prince Damulothir’s promise to support Oronviel. I will need him to demand aid of Caerthalien so she does not take the field against me before I am ready.

Mangiralas, Daroldan, Caerthalien, Ivrithir, Oronviel … a thousand threads from which she must weave her future.

Everyone’s future.

And so, with a thousand bad choices and no good ones before her, Vieliessar sent messengers to those Houses which had once supported her father’s bid to make himself High King, offering their War Princes safe passage and a Midwinter Truce if they would send representatives to Oronviel. Oronviel’s Midwinter Feast would be—must be—extraordinary, for Vieliessar must both display her power and take the next step toward what would inevitably seem as a revival of Serenthon’s royal ambitions. Worst of all, she could not count on any of the alliances she made this Snow Moon—if any—to stand one moment past the time Hamphuliadiel Astromancer made it known that she believed herself to be the Child of the Prophecy. If the War Princes hated the thought of a High King, they hated the thought of a mystical madwoman even more.

Celelioniel Astromancer had done Vieliessar no favors by her obsession with Amrethion’s Curse.

Though Midwinter was still sennights away, preparations for it were already under way. A feasting-hall crafted entirely of ice was taking form upon the meadow beyond Oronviel Castel. The kitchens were busy day and night. As each dish was finished, the last touches applied by Oronviel’s Master of Kitchens, it was cloaked in a Preservation Spell by a waiting Lightborn so that a sennight or a fortnight hence it could be brought to the feasting table as fresh and savory as if it had just been cooked. Unused chambers within the castel were aired and refurbished, temporary stables and paddocks erected, provision made for a full sennight of lavish spectacle.

It was a bit like going to war, Vieliessar thought. And in truth, this was the opening movement of her campaign, for Oronviel would keep Midwinter as if Vieliessar were already High King. In counterpoint to the lavish feasting of the nobles, she would feast the commons as well—and not upon the leavings of the great feasts, but upon bread and mutton and beer, given without stint.

Nor would her Lightborn Call the Light only upon the Fourth Night of the Festival, but upon all seven, turning away none who sought them out and taking none who refused them.

These things were new and strange enough that her ears had grown weary of hearing Gunedwaen, or Rithdeliel, or Thoromarth tell her why they must not be, and now she added one thing more: for the whole of the Festival, all within Oronviel, no matter their degree, had full right of woodland and lesser forest. They might gather what they chose, cut standing trees, and take game.

And take no hurt of it.

When I am High King, none shall starve and shiver in fear through the winter moonturns to enrich those who have no care for them.

But she was not High King yet.

Today she faced Komen Bethaerian in the circle. As with all the Great Keeps, a Challenge Circle had been set into the stone of the Great Hall when it was built: a ring of white granite set into the smooth, dark, Mage-forged slate. Here the knights of the War Prince’s household demonstrated their skill and settled quarrels. Here, too, a disgraced knight might regain lost honor and earn a place with the Starry Hunt by facing all challengers until death’s blood rinsed reputation clean once more.

Her own reputation among her knights was neither bad or good, but Vieliessar had not led them into battle for season after season. She must convince any who watched that she had set aside her Magery along with her Green Robe. And so Vieliessar met all who wished to do battle within the Great Hall’s circle, calling it sport to liven the dull days of winter.

Bethaerian was the commander of Vieliessar’s personal guard. It had taken Bethaerian sennights to challenge her, though she had watched the bouts from the beginning. She had put that time to good use, studying Vieliessar’s skills. Though Oronviel’s War Prince had disarmed Bethaerian quickly, when she slammed her shoulder against Bethaerian’s chestpiece to thrust her from the circle and end the bout, Bethaerian stepped into the blow, pulling Vieliessar against her, front to back. Neither of them could launch a further attack in that position, but Bethaerian had not lost.

“I yield,” Vieliessar said, laughter bubbling up beneath her words.

Bethaerian released her, stepping across the boundary of the Challenge Circle. Only when Vieliessar was pulling off her helm did she see Aradreleg awaiting her.

“My prince,” the Lightsister said, “a Lightborn envoy comes from Caerthalien.”

“Is he escorted?” she asked. Her people were smart and loyal, but no one in the Fortunate Lands—save, perhaps, the War Princes themselves—would go against the wishes of a Green Robe. If Ivrulion Light-Prince had refused escort …

“Indeed,” Aradreleg said, putting Vieliessar’s worry to rest. “Peryn Lightsister sends to say Komen Berlaindist brings the Lightbrother with all haste.”

It wasn’t customary for a Lightborn traveling as envoy of a War Prince to give his name, only his House, so neither Peryn nor Berlaindist would know it. “‘All haste’ is…?” Vieliessar prompted.

“A sennight, Komen Berlaindist promises, no more.”

“Then there is barely sufficient time to prepare to receive him,” Vieliessar answered. She had invited Caerthalien to attend her Winter Court, of course, but an envoy arriving a fortnight before the start of the Festival could mean only one thing: Caerthalien meant her to pledge fealty. Word of her ambition would already have reached Bolecthindial. The emissary from Caerthalien must be its attempt to overturn her plans.

They will send Ivrulion, of course. Who else? And Lightborn or no, he will speak among my guests with princely authority.…

But when Caerthalien’s Lightborn envoy walked into Oronviel’s Great Hall at last, it wasn’t Ivrulion.

“Thurion!” Vieliessar exclaimed, struggling to keep all the welcome she felt out of her voice.

“War Prince Vieliessar,” he answered, his voice steady. “War Prince Bolecthindial sends me to you, for Caerthalien has always stood friend to Oronviel.”

“Oronviel thanks Caerthalien for her gentle care of her neighbor. We rejoice in your visit to us and hope you will find all you seek.”

“I am certain I shall,” Thurion answered, bowing.

“I pray your visit will allow you to partake of our hospitality this Midwinter, as well.” She did not ask if he was Caerthalien’s envoy to her Midwinter Court, for that would reveal too much. This meeting was a formality, a show enacted for those watching. Later they would have the chance to speak privately.

“Caerthalien sends me to discover if you mean to keep to your own borders and honor the treaties Lord Bolecthindial held of War Prince Thoromarth,” Thurion said, the words bursting from his lips in a rush almost before the door had closed behind him. “Of course I’ll tell him whatever you like, but—that was Lord Gunedwaen of Farcarinon at table tonight, wasn’t it?”

The evening meal had been a long and lavish one, but it would be only prudent for any new lord of a small and embattled domain to wish to impress the emissaries of her large and powerful neighbors. Thurion had been seated upon her left hand, in the place of honor.

That he would see what he had seen was inevitable. But only one who still counted himself her friend would have broached the subject so openly.

Vieliessar waved him to a seat as she finished skimming the scroll she held—Gunedwaen’s sennightly analysis of the information he’d gleaned from her knights as well as from a number of Oronviel folk who had gone secretly where they would not have been welcomed openly.

Thurion flung himself into a low chair, kicking the hem of his robes out of the way with the negligent ease of long practice. “It was, wasn’t it? The Gunedwaen?”

“Does it matter?” Vieliessar asked, setting the report aside. There was nothing new there. The War Princes were obviously waiting for Midwinter before declaring for or against Oronviel. At least openly.

Thurion sat upright so abruptly that Striker raised her elegant head. “Of course it matters! Vielle! He lost his arm years—decades ago! No Healer has ever—” He stopped abruptly, gazing at her with disbelief. “You knew. You knew what you’d done when you Healed him.”

She met his gaze squarely. This, her instincts said. This is more important than anything else we will say to one another about my plans and the lies he will tell his Caerthalien masters. “I knew I could do it before I began,” she answered simply. “It was hard, and painful, but it was not impossible.”

“It should have been,” Thurion answered quietly. His words were not a rebuke. They were uttered in tones of one who looked upon the impossible. “I know of no Healer who could have done it.”

“You know what hradan Celelioniel laid upon me at my birth,” Vieliessar answered.

“‘Death against Darkness, blood expunge blood, burn the stars and save a brand from the burning,’” Thurion quoted. It was the beginning of the passage about the destruction of the Hundred Houses. “Is that what you mean to do?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “All I know is that I am the Child of the Prophecy, the Doom of the Hundred Houses. It took me so long to admit it that I do not know if there is enough time left.”

Thurion drew a deep, shaking breath, summoning calm, summoning reason. “You think you have deciphered Amrethion’s Prophecy,” he said, but once again Vieliessar shook her head.

“Celelioniel Astromancer deciphered it. It was why I was allowed to live. ‘When stars and clouds together point the way / And of a hundred deer one doe can no longer counted be’—Farcarinon’s destruction. Thurion, it does not matter whether I am the only one it could be, or simply the one Celelioniel chose. What matters is the rest of the Prophecy.”

Thurion studied her face. “The Prophecy foretells a time when the Hundred Houses are ended by the prophesied child who becomes High King. It says a Darkness is gathering armies against that day and talks of a false promise coming true and two becoming one. If Celelioniel Astromancer decided you were the Child of the Prophecy, she must have believed that the false promise that becomes true means you will become High King, as Serenthon War Prince tried to. But … Vielle … How can you?”

“You are Green Robe and scholar, and once you were friend to me, when I had none. I would tell you a story that is no story. Will you hear?”

“Yes,” he answered heavily. “I will hear.”

Almost he could imagine himself back at the Sanctuary of the Star on some lazy afternoon when there was nothing better to do than to try to unravel the mysteries of their long and unfathomable history. Vieliessar spoke not of herself, but of Celelioniel’s quest to discover the beginnings of the Lightborn, of how they had learned to wield their power.

“In the Sanctuary we are taught that each thing implies its opposite,” Vieliessar said. “It is the foundation of our spellcraft. Heal or harm. Make fertile or blight. And not only in our Magery: we see in the world around us that each thing possesses its opposite. Creatures who fly and creatures who burrow, grass eaters and flesh eaters, and for this cause we have always been taught that the Beastlings are the shadow of all we are—but Celelioniel did not believe that could be so. If the Beastlings possessed a Darkness as great as our Light, surely they would have used it to make a desert of all the Fortunate Lands.”

“Not if they want to live here,” Thurion commented dryly, and Vieliessar made a rude snort of amusement.

“Perhaps. But surely they would make some desert. And they would feed their spellcraft upon blood. And we would have learned that those things are wrong from their example. We have learned those things are wrong, but not from the Beastlings. From who, then?”

“Everyone knows the Lightborn—some Lightborn—break the Covenant,” Thurion said hesitantly.

“And why is there a Covenant?” she asked implacably.

For a moment Thurion was a Postulant still. “Because—it must have been a long time ago—some Lightborn did those things, and…” He stopped, because Vieliessar was shaking her head.

“Each thing there is implies—creates—its opposite,” she reminded him.

“Theory is no validation of prophecy,” Thurion answered, almost sputtering.

“No,” Vieliessar agreed. “And Celelioniel did not begin with the Prophecy, but with an attempt to discover how we learned to do as we do. It was Mosirinde Peacemaker who first taught the Covenant—and she also who founded the Sanctuary of the Star.”

“But—” Thurion said.

“But no one knows why, or how the Light came to us before the founding of the Sanctuary,” Vieliessar agreed. “I will ask you to simply take as true that Celelioniel searched for that answer for years, that The Song of Amrethion was the end of her quest and not the beginning, that she discovered that what seems like nonsense to our eyes is instead a simple list of events that will come to pass before…” She stopped, and when she went on, her voice held sudden urgency. “Thurion, do you believe that evil can be done in the service of good?”

“Of course not,” he answered promptly. “By its very nature, evil destroys and taints all it touches, so anything it touches cannot be good.”

Vieliessar bowed her head, and Thurion didn’t think he’d given her the answer she hoped to hear. But it was what they had both been taught in the Sanctuary.

“Imagine all the good things in the world. Everything you can. Everything that has given you joy, or a moment’s pleasure, or made you happy,” she said.

“The Light,” Thurion answered softly. The look on Vieliessar’s face frightened him, though he could not say why.

“Now imagine that all these good things have an opposite. Not the petty cruelty of the Hundred Houses—for the War Princes may be as kind and generous as they are cruel and petty—but an opposite. A being. A race that can only be named Darkness.”

“You cannot know this!” Thurion exclaimed.

“High King Amrethion warned of them—every Astromancer, every great Seer from Mosirinde Peacemaker to Celelioniel has Seen them. Hamphuliadiel has swept all the books of prophecy from Arevethmonion—did you know?—so no other can discover that Celelioniel spoke true.”

“It is only a theory, Vielle,” Thurion said desperately.

“Yes,” she answered. “A theory. But suppose it is not. The Prophecy says this Darkness comes, not to conquer us, but to destroy us. If I am the Child of the Prophecy, it will come in my lifetime. If the Hundred Houses do not act as one when that day comes, our defeat is certain. So tell me, my oldest friend, what would you have me do?”

There was only one true answer he could give: If the Prophecy is true, you must do everything you can, no matter what it is, to make the Fortunate Lands ready for the day we must fight as one.

He could not bear to give her those words.

“All right,” he said into the silence. “Let us suppose the Prophecy is as you say.”

“You do not believe,” she said harshly.

“I want to,” he answered helplessly, knowing only as he spoke that the words were true. “But I cannot imagine … How can you hope to unite the Hundred and make the War Princes swear fealty to you? Serenthon—”

“Serenthon of Farcarinon intrigued to make himself High King with vows and promises, yet his strongest ally turned against him. Caerthalien was able to turn his allies against him and unify his enemies—because they feared what their lives would hold were he to rule,” she answered unyieldingly. “I know his errors. I would not repeat them. But I ask again, Thurion: what must I do?”

His life had trained him to love the Light. His years in the Sanctuary of the Star had trained him to think. “You must fight,” he answered, hanging his head. “If we die in battle, the Hunt will claim us for its own, so … Vielle, you are the most powerful Mage I have ever seen. Could you—if you were to break the Covenant—”

“—call down lightning from the sky to slay all their armies in an instant?” She gnawed at her lower lip, as if choosing her next words with care. “That thought was in my mind. But I might render the Fortunate Lands a desert without destroying the Darkness. Or the Lightborn might slay me as I fought. Or I might succeed—” She broke off. “One chance in three of victory is not such a match as I would wager upon. If we are to face a great army, we will face it with a great army.”

“But you have no proof!” Thurion cried. “You cannot make the Hundred bend the knee without giving them proof!”

“No,” Vieliessar agreed. Her voice was hard. “Nor would I offer it if I had—they would only fight among themselves over who was to lead the army, just as they have fought all these centuries over which of them is to be Amrethion’s successor. And so I will not ask anyone to believe in anything but me. The War Princes will swear to me, and to each other, and we shall face the Darkness an army of princes. All of us, Thurion. All.”

“Did you…?” Thurion said. His voice trembled, and he could not finish the sentence. Did you use Magery to defeat Rithdeliel and gain Oronviel?

“I will do what I must, Thurion.” There was no triumph in her voice.

Tears glittered in Thurion’s eyes. He wiped them away before they fell, not caring if she saw. “Vielle … Is it worth … surviving … if we cast aside everything that makes us what we are?”

“Once Amrethion and Pelashia reigned over a land without death, without war—without Landbond and craftworker sold as if they were cattle when the luck of battle did not favor their masters. We have already cast aside what we were. I would see us live to regain it,” she answered softly.

“I … I must…” With great effort, Thurion collected himself. “I suppose I have always known. Who you were. What you were. What you would become. I have thought, you know, since the news came to us of Oronviel. About you. The Sanctuary never finds Light in the Lines Direct, you know. I think something must have happened that forced Caerthalien to send Prince Ivrulion to the Sanctuary. Perhaps all of you—”

“I am no different than you, Thurion,” she said, but he went on as if she hadn’t spoken.

“—perhaps all of you have great power. Perhaps the Sanctuary fears the return of Lightborn like Mosirinde Peacemaker. They should. Have you ever thought about how miraculous Lady Nataranweiya’s escape from Farcarinon was? She could have died a thousand times on the journey. She did not. She could have miscarried of you, lost you to cold, a fall from her horse, a dozen things. She did not. She gained the Sanctuary. You were born alive. Celelioniel knew all you say you know, yet she feared your birth as if it were the summoning of the Darkness, not our defense against it. And still she set her Master Spell upon you so you could grow up safely beneath the rooftree of your House’s greatest enemy.

“You might have died there. Babies do. Children do. A kick from a horse, a fall from a wall, and all Ladyholder Glorthiachiel would have needed to do was not summon a Lightborn to Heal you. But she never got the chance. So you went to the Sanctuary, and there you were no one. Nothing. Powerless. Hamphuliadiel could have slain you and gained favor with any of a dozen Houses. He never did—and then it was too late, for not even the Astromancer may raise his hand against one of the Lightborn without cause. You have walked barefoot among adders every day of your life and never been harmed. Your destiny was always waiting for you. A task set upon your shoulders by Amrethion Aradruiniel himself, ten thousand years ago.”

He had not meant to say any of this. It was admission that he believed. But he could not hold back the words.

“I think it has made you … more,” he said in a whisper. “I do not know why others do not see it. Perhaps you keep them from seeing it, as you kept Hamphuliadiel from seeing you. But they will see it. And they will fear you as you fear the Darkness to come.

“I cannot stand against what you have become, Vielle. The time when I might have is long past.”

“Do you fear me?” she asked, and in her eyes Thurion saw sorrow, not triumph.

“Yes,” he said simply. “And I grieve, for I had a friend whom I loved, and she was but an illusion, a shadow cast by a Great Power.”

“I am no Great Power!” Vieliessar protested. “You said yourself—Nataranweiya was my mother—Serenthon was my father—”

“And now you are Child of the Prophecy, not of Farcarinon,” Thurion said with gentle finality.

“Will you serve me still?” she asked.

Thurion closed his eyes as if the sound of her voice hurt. “Yes,” he answered, opening them again.

She smiled painfully, and in that moment she was so beautiful his heart broke for her. “You will curse my name before we are done,” she told him.

“I don’t care,” he answered steadily. “I will do all that you ask of me.” He took another deep breath. “So let us now consider what I am to tell Bolecthindial, and how I am to keep Ivrulion from discovering the truth.”

Vieliessar’s Midwinter Court was a dazzling affair. Through her Lightborn, by spellbird, she had extended invitations to the princes of all the Hundred Houses. Only those of the forty Houses of the West could possibly attend, for the eastward passes were closed by winter, and the journey from the Western Shore was long and arduous. It did not matter. Every word spoken within Oronviel’s walls on the first night of the Festival would reach the farthest castels of the Grand Windsward before the seventh.

“I still say you’re mad.”

“Say I am imaginative, Prince Thoromarth, it sounds better,” Vieliessar answered.

“I’ll say you’re the Mother of Dragons if that’s what you want,” Thoromarth growled in reply.

First Night. The feast had gone on from sunset to midnight. Two dozen Lightborn envoys were guests of Oronviel, and if they weren’t spies in truth, their so-called servants certainly were. No one from the High Houses had attended, but what Ulillion knew, Cirandeiron knew in the same breath. The Twelve were present, even if they were not here.

“Say I shall be High King, for I mean to be,” she said. She walked through the outer room to the inner as Thoromarth followed. “Wine?” she asked, gesturing to the sideboard as she seated herself in a chair beneath the window. A spellshield cast a faint shimmer over the opening.

He raised a cup toward her in silent question, nodding at her demur before filling it for himself. “Giving amnesty to losels and wolfsheads is one thing—a prince may do as she pleases with her people and I won’t gainsay you. But … not sending Candidates to the Shrine? What will the Astromancer think?” Thoromarth asked.

“I have not made up my mind to it.” But soon Oronviel would be set against the rest of the Hundred Houses, and she had promised her people she would not take their children from them to be held as hostages. “Forester Lonthorn has been to the Flower Forest. She says the Vilya looks likely to fruit this spring, so we shall have a new Astromancer.” She gazed down at the surface of the inlaid table beside her. The silver wires crossing the wood gleamed faintly violet in the spellshield’s light. “Thoromarth, why doesn’t the Light ever appear in the Lines Direct?”

Thoromarth frowned and glanced back toward the outer room. He was obviously displeased by this change of topic—he had little patience for discussions which seemed to him to be idle speculation—but knew he had no choice but to follow Vieliessar’s whims. “It does,” he protested. There’s you, and … Ivrulion Light-Prince of Caerthalien, and…” He stopped.

“Let us not forget Ternas of Celebros,” Vieliessar said dryly. “But … two, from all the Hundred Houses in all the years of the reigns of the last three Astromancers? And I was not expected to have the Light, and Ivrulion’s Light was not supposed to be discovered. What we do at the Sanctuary is flawed, Thoromarth.”

Thoromarth reached to touch the silver shoeing-nail he wore about his neck. “Hunt defend us, is there nothing you do not mean to overturn?” he asked.

“Perhaps I shall like the new Astromancer better than I like Hamphuliadiel,” Vieliessar answered obliquely. “We shall see.”

“Perhaps you will not live to see him—or her—chosen,” Thoromarth grumbled. “Ah well. It is time I sought my bed, to receive the overtures of all those who wish to cast you down and set me once more in your place.”

“And I to give these same answers to Gunedwaen and Rithdeliel,” Vieliessar answered lightly. “I wish you good rest, such as it will be.”

On the Fourth Night of Midwinter, Lightbrother Thurion of Caerthalien Called the Light in the children of Oronviel Great Keep. It was a graceful nod to Oronviel’s clientage to Caerthalien, and if everyone at the Festival already knew that Vieliessar meant to break those ties, the fact that she still played a double game was obscurely reassuring.

It brought back odd memories of her childhood, when she was Varuthir, not Vieliessar. Of watching the castel children walk up to the High Table in Caerthalien’s Great Hall where Ivrulion and other senior Lightborn waited to Call the Light. The storysinger sang The Song of Pelashia’s Gift and each child received a honeycake and a ribbon when the Lightbrother was done. Silver for those who would make the journey to the Sanctuary of the Star, gold for those who would not.

Now it was a lifetime later, and she sat in the War Prince’s great chair in another Great Hall, and presided over the selection of Candidates who might never see the Sanctuary.

Oddly, with all she said, privately and publicly, and despite the very fact of her existence, the thing that caused the most talk that Midwinter was Vieliessar’s treatment of the commons. Night after night, her vassal lords and the Lightborn envoys stood upon the battlements of the keep and looked out over the tables she had erected for the commons’ feast.

A waste of good food, they said.

They’ll come to expect such tender treatment, and grow lazy.

She cossets them out of weakness.

Sanctuary softness has no place in a War Prince.

But beneath the mockery and disbelief, she sensed … fear.

Fear of change.

Fear of ways they did not understand.

Fear of her.

And on the morning of the eighth day, those who had kept Festival within Oronviel’s walls rode forth, while Vieliessar stood upon the battlements and watched them go. It was hard to watch Thurion ride away, knowing that his pledge to her made all of Caerthalien a danger to him.

But spring was coming.

And War Season.