Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER TEN

FIRE AND FLIGHT

“Should” and “would” and “ought” are three great armies who always fight on the enemy side.

—Toncienor of Caerthalien,

The Swordmaster’s Book

“We must go. Now,” Helecanth said.

“You’re right,” Runacarendalur said heavily.

When the first of the Lightborn had returned, he’d ordered word sent to Caerthalien Keep, for little as he wished Lord Bolecthindial to know of his defeat and disgrace, the information was urgent. Once again, he glanced toward the Oronviel camp. Desire warred with desire: if he’d had the least hope he could mount a successful attack, he would have done so. But the destruction of the camp had finished the task the disastrous fight had begun. The knights of Caerthalien had no more heart for battle. We cannot be all that remain, Runacarendalur thought, and each time the idea occurred to him, it was as if it were a fresh wound.

“Come, my lord,” Helecanth said gently. “We will do this quietly.”

Runacarendalur nodded. He led Gwaenor through the shattered camp, pausing at each cluster of knights to pass the order. Gathering them to march could have been done in an instant with the signal horns, but Helecanth was right: the sound would only alert their enemy. And who knew what they would do?

Beyond the far edge of the destruction, Runacarendalur found Ladyholder Glorthiachiel and Carangil Lightbrother. Glorthiachiel was seated on a battered storage chest, a cup in her hand, and someone’s fur-lined stormcloak about her shoulders.

Trust Mother to make herself as comfortable as possible.

“Come,” Runacarendalur said. “We’re leaving.”

“So I see,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said acidly. “Slinking away like curs whipped to kennel.”

“If you wish,” he answered. “It is not as if Caerthalien has not suffered defeat before. If you wish to stay and explain to Oronviel how that is impossible, of course, I will not compel you to accompany us.”

“Would that you’d showed a fraction of such spirit in battle today,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said. She rose to her feet, handing her cup to Carangil. “My horse,” she said.

Carangil led the destrier over and assisted Ladyholder Glorthiachiel to mount. It was undoubtedly just as well, Runacarendalur thought, that Carangil Lightbrother was able to bespell the animal to docility. He didn’t doubt his mother’s ability to browbeat any living thing into submission, but the need to do so wouldn’t sweeten her temper.

Not that anything would at this point.

“You said you would bring back her head,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said, in an undertone sharp enough to etch steel. “You said the Household knights would be sufficient to rout Oronviel’s meisne and a pack of lowborn mercenaries.”

I did not know I would be facing the daughter of Serenthon Farcarinon, Runacarendalur thought. He walked beside Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s mount, leading Gwaenor. All around them, the remains of Caerthalien’s Household knights moved westward, more a disordered throng of refugees rather than an army. Some knights led exhausted destriers. Others rode. There were no horses or wagons for the servants, the Lightborn, or the arming pages. Some of the servants walked beside their masters. Some simply stood and wept as the column slowly formed and began to move—unable to believe any of this was happening, unable to believe they must retrace the distance they had come

At first he thought they would be pursued, for the movement of so many people and horses was not quiet. But to his faint astonishment, no one came. After a while, the column began to move with something resembling organization, for the knights were used to riding to war and their servants were used to following orders. To make sure no one was falling behind—though there was little he could do if they were—Runacarendalur mounted Gwaenor and forced the destrier to trot up and down the slow-moving column of servants and knights.

Gwaenor was irritable and short-tempered, snapping at anyone who was near and lashing out with his heels. It was no more than the other destriers were doing—in their experience, a battle was followed by food and rest—but it made them difficult to control and impossible to ride or lead as a close-packed group. The Lightborn could bespell them—just as Carangil had bespelled Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s mount—but that could be disastrous if they needed to give battle quickly. For now, it was enough that the Lightborn led the column and lit the way, that the remains of the army had formed up into their usual meisnes, that everyone was moving.

He would not think about what must happen when they had to stop: the Lightborn could Call water at need, but the army had no food at all.

“Prince Runacarendalur.” A voice at his side jarred Runacarendalur out of his uncomfortable thoughts.

“Nimrosian.”

The commander of the Caerthalien Household komentai’a smiled effortfully. “We have had better days, have we not, my prince?”

The wry understatement was almost enough to make Runacarendalur laugh. “Far better, old friend.”

“Yet this day is not lost, unless you and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel are lost,” Nimrosian continued. “Four days to the border—if not more. Yet if you and the lady were to ride on ahead…”

“And leave you?” Runacarendalur said, horrified. To abandon one’s command on the field was worse than foolishness. It was cowardice.

“We are of little value to Oronviel,” Nimrosian said. “Lord Bolecthindial will ransom us, should we surrender. Or avenge us, if our surrender is not accepted. But you and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel would be great prizes. The ransom Oronviel might ask would be ruinous indeed.”

“He’s right,” Helecanth said. “A small party can move fast. And a troop of horse could meet us at the border crossing and even cross the border to bring Ladyholder Glorthiachiel to safety.”

“Then you must—” Runacarendalur began.

“You are the only one of sufficient rank to curb the lady’s … courage,” Nimrosian said tactfully. “I beg you, Prince Runacarendalur. For her safety, if not for yours. Go, now. If you are well away by dawn we may be able to convince them you yet ride with us.”

He knew they were right, but it was agony to admit it. “I must have another horse. She will not permit Carangil to be left behind.”

“I will see to it,” Nimrosian said. “Will you inform the lady?”

“Yes,” Runacarendalur said, sighing.

“I will remain here,” Helecanth said, before Runacarendalur could order her to accompany him. “My armor is known to Thoromarth, and I must bear your standard. Elerosha will ride with you. I will send him to you.”

“You must—” For a moment, he could not summon words. “You must send to me, if you are captured. Not to my father.”

Even though he could not see it, he heard the smile in her voice as she replied. “I shall expect you to beggar yourself to pay my ransom. Now go.”

It seemed only the work of moments for Runacarendalur to reach the front of the column and explain Nimrosian’s plan. Ladyholder Glorthiachiel received his speech in an icy silence, giving him the barest nod of assent. Then Elerosha arrived, leading a second destrier. Carangil laid his hands upon its neck and its wild-eyed trembling subsided.

The four riders trotted into the darkness. Soon they had left the slow-moving column behind.

It was still grey dawn when her chamber-page roused Vieliessar, bringing the word of Oronviel’s sentries that Caerthalien’s army had stolen away in the night, just as she’d suspected it would. She decided to take five hundred horse to follow the remains of Caerthalien’s army and leave two hundred more to guard her supply train. The rest of her people could return to their duties, for no matter how crushing a defeat she had given Caerthalien, this attack might still be a feint to cloak another.

As they rode across the battlefield, flocks of carrion birds startled up from the tangled bodies; in the grey mist of morning she saw the low, slinking shapes of other predators ghost away until they could feed undisturbed once more. Her people would not return to the Great Keep until Oronviel’s dead had been removed from the field, but those belonging to Caerthalien would lie here until they rotted.

It was almost impossible to say where the battlefield ended and Caerthalien’s camp began. The only difference between the two was that in the camp, the wreckage of bodies was replaced by the wreckage of things: everything a princely army carried to war, shattered and spoiled.

By the time they’d passed both battlefield and camp, the day was bright and the ground was even. Vieliessar’s company moved to the trot. They had only gone a few miles when they encountered the first of the Caerthaliens. Their plain dull clothing marked them as lesser servants, those who performed menial work: setting the tents, fetching and carrying. They leaped to their feet at the sound of horses and clustered so closely around Vieliessar’s force that the knights were forced to rein their destriers to a halt.

“Vieliessar High King! Vieliessar High King!” First one, then another, spoke the words, until all of them cried her name together as they crowded forward, reaching out to touch her. “Vieliessar High King!”

The destriers began to fret and dance, unhappy at being crowded. Moved—and more than a little frightened by the power of what she had unleashed—she reached out to touch the hands of those who reached out for her. They look to me for protection now, she realized. Not because I am their War Prince but because I will be their King.

“Let us pass,” Bethaerian demanded, her voice tight with tension. “Our supply wagons follow us—you will be fed!”

“Let me pass,” Vieliessar said to those nearest to her. “I am not yet High King.”

Slowly the crowd moved away, opening a pathway through which the company could ride.

“There is a stream only a little way to the south,” Bethaerian said as they rode on. “Do they not hear it?”

“Castel servants,” another komen answered dismissively. “They have no more wits than sheep.”

“Say rather that they are in a strange place, and those lords they looked to for protection have left them,” Vieliessar corrected sharply. Gaellas ducked his head, acknowledging the rebuke, but it would take far more than a few small corrections to change the way the komentai’a thought.

This was the first group of stragglers they encountered, but not the last. Some sat unmoving at the side of the road, some fled at their approach, some continued walking, but many, seeing her banner, hailed Vieliessar as High King. Whether they wore leather and rough homespun or the silken livery of household servants, the expression on every face was the same.

Hope.

Seeing them and realizing that her promise had been heard and taken to heart even in the stronghold of her enemy, Vieliessar suddenly knew victory was possible. To all who begged for aid, Bethaerian made the same reply as before: their supplies followed.

“They will only steal all they can lay hands on and flee,” Bethaerian grumbled as they rode on.

“Back to masters who have abandoned them?” Vieliessar asked. “No. They are my people now.”

At midmorning, a cloud of dust hanging above the road before them signaled the passage of Caerthalien’s army. “Sound the call to battle.”

The enemy forces seemed to scatter in all directions at the first notes of the warhorn, but Vieliessar knew that was merely those afoot moving out of the way of the knights. When they were yet a mile distant, Vieliessar ordered Bethaerian to sound the charge, and they moved from trot, to canter, to gallop. The Caerthalien knights turned in column to face them, and Vieliessar could see Prince Runacarendalur’s standard in the first rank.

But he is not here. I can tell it. She could not say how she knew, for it was not possible to see anything clearly in the moment the point of her formation struck their ranks. But she was as certain of it as she was of the count of her own fingers and toes. There was an instant for relief that she did not need to fear for her hated enemy’s safety—and anger, for he had abandoned his army and fled, perhaps beyond her reach—and then she was embattled.

She had not let herself think about what had happened on yesterday’s battlefield. The storysingers made of Soulbonding a thing that overshadowed both will and common sense, and in the instant she had seen him, she had known both were true, for from the moment the Bond had been formed, she had thought of nothing but killing him. Death would be kinder than a lifetime linked to one who embodied everything she had come to despise—princely arrogance and royal ambition. She remembered Prince Runacarendalur from her childhood: a shining, distant figure who was the embodiment of all she wished to become.

I will not be his consort. I cannot take him as mine—I cannot say to Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen and Thoromarth and all who may come to fight for me: spare Runacarendalur of Caerthalien, for if he should die, I die as well.…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Their armies, or…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Runacarendalur had been allowed to escape the interrogation soon afterward. Rather than risk encountering the other War Princes or their Households elsewhere in the castel, he’d gone directly to his rooms, only to find a message summoning him to attend his father later. He’d been even more surprised, when he’d come at the appointed candlemark, to find Lord Bolecthindial alone.

“How could it have been necessary to expose us in our weakness—and me in my folly?” he said irritably.

“I require my former allies to believe Oronviel to be a threat to all of us,” Bolecthindial said.

“How can you believe it is not?” Runacarendalur demanded, stunned. “Vieliessar flouts the Code of Battle—she slaughtered most of the Household guard—she—”

“By drawing my old allies close and bleating in terror like a tethered kid, I gain concessions from Telthorelandor and Cirandeiron, and lull Aramenthiali,” Bolecthindial answered calmly.

“Do not tell me you sent your knights to be slaughtered for that?” Runacarendalur said hoarsely. Two-thirds of my army; she slaughtered two-thirds of my army.…

“No,” Bolecthindial shook his head. “I believed, as you did, that you would gain the victory. But you did not, and so I must choose another weapon.”

“What weapon?” Runacarendalur asked. “How can you believe anything will succeed when your army has failed?”

“It is a weapon I have wielded before,” Bolecthindial replied. “Its edge is keen enough to slay any prince.”

And he would say nothing more.

Barely a sennight after the defeat of Caerthalien’s army, Oronviel marched upon Laeldor. There was little for any of them to do while the army was on the march. Lord Vieliessar had sent Ambrant Lightbrother to War Prince Ablenariel with her challenge the moment she had reached Oronviel Great Keep. He had not rejoined the army along its march, which meant either he was still trying to persuade Lord Ablenariel of the wisdom of surrender or was being detained. Thoromarth had expected Ablenariel to take the field by now, if only in response to the nagging of his Caerthalien-bred wife and the sly proddings of a Chief Lightborn all knew to be inclined toward Aramenthiali. But he had not, and now two more days would see them at Laeldor’s Great Keep.

Riding the bounds of the camp each night was the only sign of nervousness Lord Vieliessar betrayed. Thoromarth wasn’t sure whether he was glad to see his prince fretting over the future like some ordinary komen or worried that her unease was the harbinger of catastrophe. Tonight she had bidden him to ride with her.

“Have you thought of what you will do if you win?” Thoromarth asked.

“When I win,” Vieliessar corrected.

Thoromarth waved the correction aside irritably. “When you win, if you win.… A good commander prepares for failure.”

“If I fail, there is nothing to prepare for,” Vieliessar said simply. “But I have planned for success.”

“I am eager to hear your thoughts,” Thoromarth said dourly.

“Should Ablenariel surrender himself and his domain and pledge fealty to me, I will spare his life. Then I shall take the whole of Laeldor’s army and add it to Araphant’s, and I shall march upon Mangiralas.”

“You’d leave Laeldor undefended?” Thoromarth asked.

“If Caerthalien wishes to invest Laeldor, and in doing so spread what remains of its armies thinner still, I shall be pleased to let them do so,” she answered. “If Caerthalien and Aramenthiali wish to fight over Laeldor and Araphant, let them. They weaken themselves, and both domains will be mine in the end.”

“If you win,” Thoromarth said.

“When I win,” she answered with an edged smile. “If I am forced to fight Laeldor, the end is much the same, save that I execute Ablenariel, and any of his family who will not renounce their claim to the Unicorn Throne in favor of mine. Either way…” She hesitated.

“What?” Thoromarth asked.

“Thoromarth, I cannot afford a siege here. I do not have time.”

“Shouldn’t you say this to Ablenariel? Perhaps it would convince him to surrender.”

“I must ask something of you,” she said, and sounded so troubled that Thoromarth felt a cold pang of unease strike like an enemy’s dagger to his chest.

She did not speak again until she had led the two of them so far from the edge of the camp that they crossed the path of the sentries on watch. “You know Magery is said to be Pelashia’s Gift to the alfaljodthi,” she began slowly.

“My lord, if you wish to speak of Magery, speak to Rithdeliel, or Gunedwaen, or even to your destrier—not to me, I beg you,” Thoromarth said hastily. “You know that—”

“I must!” she said, so urgently that Thoromarth reined his palfrey to a stop. “You may not know of the Covenant the Lightborn swear to abide by, which we will keep—which they will keep—even if their liege-lords order them to do something against it. But you know that the Lightborn do not use their arts in war.”

“Yes,” Thoromarth said, when the silence had stretched long enough he knew she would say nothing more. “This Covenant. They all swear to it.”

“No,” Vieliessar said. “The Covenant is not the same thing as that promise.”

If Thoromarth had felt uneasy before, now he felt dread such has he had only felt the single time he had gone to make sacrifice at the Shrine of the Star. “It must be,” he said.

“No,” Vieliessar said quietly. “The Covenant is our pledge that we will never draw so much power from the land that it sickens and dies, that we will never draw power from the shedding of blood nor from any breathing thing. In battle, Mosirinde Peacemaker thought, there would be too much temptation. For when victory is sweet, and ardently desired, and so many are slain or come near to death, it would seem a small thing to steal the life of an enemy. Or to let the death of one’s own warriors bring one victory. And so we wrap ourselves in custom and let the Lightless think it is a vow.”

His father and his teachers, his mother, wife, brothers, and children, had all thought Thoromarth slow-witted. In this moment he wished it were so, so that he would not understand what argument his lord now wove. “Then this Covenant and that promise are the same,” he said again, more urgently. They must be. They have to be.

“No,” Vieliessar said again. “Mosirinde hoped to put an end to war by removing the sharpest blade from the armory of the War Princes. She wished to end the suffering of the Lightborn, for those who drew power from blood went mad. She wrote that they sickened and died, but that before their deaths, they did great harm. And I will not break her Covenant, for I am sworn to it. But I will be High King, Thoromarth. And to gain the Throne, I will use every weapon I have.”

The silence stretched between them, as Thoromarth tried to unhear his Lord’s words, tried not to understand their meaning. “You have taken my throne from me by trickery and Magecraft,” he said at last.

“I used no Magery to best Rithdeliel,” she answered steadily. “To defeat Eiron Lightbrother’s shield afterward, yes. But I had already won Oronviel by right of the sword. You must believe this, if you believe no other thing I say to you. I used only the swordcraft Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen gave to me.”

“That is not possible,” Thoromarth said slowly. He wished to believe her with all his heart. He’d believed it was so, even when it had seemed impossible, for there had been no alternative. But now she said she had not, would not, set aside her Magery.

“I do not lie,” she answered. She smiled, and Thoromarth did not think he had ever seen such an expression of grief. “The High King chose me. He wrote of me in a Song—a prophecy. If my skill in swordcraft owes anything to Magery, it is Amrethion’s, not mine.”

“Then let the Magery you wield end there!” Thoromarth cried, his voice harsh. “It cannot be— No one can blame—”

“I cannot,” Vieliessar answered sadly. “I have not set aside my Light, though I have let you, everyone, believe I have. I will use it on the battlefield—if I must. And I shall ask my Lightborn to use theirs as well.”

“They will leave you,” Thoromarth said, still grasping for what he knew as truth. “They will not do it.”

“Then they will leave,” Vieliessar said. “Some will not. Oh, Thoromarth, how can you think the Lightborn noble beyond desire, beyond temptation, beyond anger? Hamphuliadiel, who was set highest of all of us, grasps after power behind a curtain of lies. Can you think the rest of us are better than he is?”

“You must be!” Thoromarth answered. He had never expected to say such words. To her. Of her. “You must be! Or is all your talk of justice and truth and peace nothing more than another curtain of lies?”

“What I have promised, I will do,” she answered, and in that moment, Thoromarth had the chill conviction that he spoke not to a living woman of flesh, a woman who could sweat and bleed, but to a power as distant and inhuman as the Voice of the Shrine. “I would never have come here if I did not mean to do all I have promised.”

“Then why— Why—” To his horror, Thoromarth felt tears prickle behind his eyes. “Why must you tell me what you have?” he asked, his voice a whisper more forceful than a shout.

“If you cannot bear this knowledge, no one can, and I have lost,” she said simply. “If I may say to you, my liege-man and companion, my counselor, my friend, that I will use Magery in war, and you will still follow me … then there is a chance.”

He could slay her, Thoromarth thought. Here, his sword against hers, afoot. Or he could take what he knew to her commanders and raise the army up in mutiny against her. He could make such accusations against her as would turn her Lightborn against her. He could say she was mad—that she’d taken his throne by Magery—that she would not be content with gaining the Unicorn Throne, but meant to kill all the War Princes, whether they had sworn to her or not.

He could say everything she’d said since she took Oronviel was a lie.

“Only a chance?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Only that,” she answered.

“They will hate you,” he said. “They will fear you.”

“My enemies, yes,” she said. “My friends will see Thoromarth of Oronviel standing beside me and know there is nothing to fear.”

And I will, he thought. Realizing that gave him no joy. He had surrendered his throne out of despair and superstition—he saw that now—but all that had followed had come from hope. Hope she could do what she said she would. Hope she would do what she said she would.

“Vieliessar,” he said, and her naked name in his mouth seemed as if it were the greatest presumption he had ever committed. “Is it—is all this—just for power?”

“No,” she said, her voice low and quiet. “It is because Amrethion High King said I must.”

“Tell me nothing more,” he said, when she would have continued. “I do not wish to know my fate if you should lose.”

“I shall not lose,” she answered, steadily.

But this night Thoromarth did not join her in her pavilion for talk and merriment.

“I need you to do something for me,” Vieliessar said.

The candlemark was late; her commanders had departed to their own pavilions. Even her servants, having readied her pavilion for the morning, had gone.

“I know it’s not to send challenge to War Prince Ablenariel,” Thurion said lightly, “for you sent Ambrant Lightbrother with that. He will barely have finished delivering your message before your army is at Laeldor’s walls.”

“And when I take Laeldor, I must show the means by which I will take the Unicorn Throne. And that is not by grasping and holding land. What I shall take—and hold—is fealty. The High Houses may do as they like with the land.”

“It is like a game of xaique,” Thurion said. He did not ask if she could do it: for that was a thing no one could know, unless they petitioned the Star-Crowned to draw aside the veil that covered the future.

“Much like a game of xaique,” she agreed. “If I were playing against a dozen opponents upon a board I could not see. But that is not why I summoned you to this audience.”

“Was I summoned?” Thurion asked, glancing ostentatiously around the empty tent. “I thought I came to pay an evening call upon an old friend.”

“So you did. And it is from my friend I ask this favor, for it is a thing I would hesitate to demand of a vassal.”

“Both friend and vassal, I hope,” Thurion said, smiling. “Tell me. What is it you need?”

“Do you recall Malbeth of Haldil?” she asked, rather than answering him directly.

“Yes. Of course.” It did not require any feat of memory to recall that name, for Caerthalien had been in the Grand Windsward for the whole of War Season only a few decades past because of Malbeth of Haldil. “War Prince Gonceivis proclaimed Malbeth—his greatson through an elder daughter, if I remember rightly—Child of the Prophecy, and the Less Houses of the Grand Windsward rebelled against the High Houses in the West.”

“Yes,” Vieliessar said, nodding. “They did not even propose a Candidate for the High Kingship. Rather they claimed that the time High King Amrethion foretold had come, and no longer was there High House and Low. And so I need to send someone to Haldil to say Vieliessar Oronviel shall be High King and fulfill the Prophecy in truth.”

Thurion frowned, thinking over what she’d said. “Gonceivis knows The Song of Amrethion,” he said slowly. “If for no other cause than that Haldil is Hamphuliadiel’s House … and the Less Houses tried to break with the High by both force of arms and by the sword of custom. Vielle, if you have me say this to him, he will know you claim the Unicorn Throne not merely by conquest, but as High King Amrethion Aradruiniel’s prophesied successor.”

“Yes. And so it is you who must go, Thurion, for you already know I am Child of the Prophecy. It is the strongest argument I can offer to the Houses of the Grand Windsward, for freedom from the demands of the High Houses is what they desire most of all. And I must make this claim sooner or later,” she said, half laughing, half mournful. “And then every fool who once read The Song of Amrethion Aradruiniel will comb through it for proof I am mad.”

“I could almost wish you were, for the end of High House and Low is not all Amrethion prophesies.” Thurion shook his head. “And when Lord Gonceivis asks me of the rest of the Prophecy? Darkness—death—disaster—terrible armies out of the shadows?”

“I leave that in your hands,” Vieliessar answered. “Tell him all, or nothing—or lie. If Celelioniel had known what is so terrible Amrethion must send his prophecy down a score of generations to find me—she might simply have told the War Princes what was to come and let that be an end to it. I dare not. I dare not,” she repeated, low.

“And if Haldil will not listen?” Thurion asked.

“Then Bethros, or Hallorad, or even Penenjil, for if their Silver Swords do not ride to war outside Penenjil’s borders, perhaps they will fight for the Fortunate Lands themselves.” She frowned, as a memory struck her. “But that cannot be true. Once, at the edge of Arevethmonion, I saw some of the Silver Swords. They rode with knights of Calwas and Enerchelimier—and Anginach Lightbrother rode with them, in the armor of a knight. He called me Farcarinon and asked my forgiveness. I never knew why, but he carried with him part of a scroll that held Celelioniel’s last proofs. He died—they were all cut down by others who followed, and his body was too shattered by battle cordial for me to Heal him.…”

“A mystery,” Thurion said, as puzzled as she was. “For how should Calwas come to aid Enerchelimier, or cause Penenjil to break ancient custom? But it is settled: if Haldil will not hear me, I will go to Penenjil, and remind the Master of the Silver Swords of that day, for he will know of it. Of that, I am certain.”

“You will go?” she said, her voice as light with relief as if she were not a War Prince and he not her sworn vassal.

“At once.”

“I will send—” she began, but Thurion shook his head.

“Better if I go alone. You could not send enough knights with me to keep me safe on the Grand Windsward—and I could not keep them safe, either. If I go alone, my spells will guard me and I can use Door to speed me on my journey. I swear to you: I shall go to every court, to every prince of the Grand Windsward, and I shall bring you an army so great that the High Houses will throw down their swords and weep in despair.”

“I have known you so many years, and never knew you for a Storysinger,” she replied, smiling faintly.

Thurion smiled at the gentle teasing, but only for a moment. “Care for my Denerarth while I am gone. He thinks I can do nothing for myself, and he will worry.”

“I shall care for him as if he were my own flesh. And if— And if the day should go against me, I swear to you I will see him safe. And your family as well.”

“Then there is nothing for me to fear. I shall bring you your army before the first snows.” They were brave words, such as any knight might speak to his heart’s lady—if the world were a storysinger’s tale. Both of them knew it was not, for Vieliessar’s family had been destroyed by fear and ambition and the Light had lifted Thurion from a life of toil and privation to a life of ease and luxury … and of knowing his family were held hostage against his lord’s displeasure.

But the purpose of stories was to take the ugly, terrifying truths with which one must live and turn them into brave and beautiful ideas one might love. And so Thurion spoke light words of farewell as if his life had become a storysong for a Festival day, and held his fears and worries close until he would be the only one who could see them. And he went to tell Denerarth that he rode alone on a journey but that all would end well.

Siege was rarely a tactic used by any of the War Princes, for it was costly and difficult and offered little chance for battle. Vieliessar had not intended to besiege Laeldor, for as she had said to Thoromarth three days before: she dared not spend a year, or even a moonturn, in siege. For that reason, she had sent Ambrant Lightbrother to War Prince Ablenariel with a challenge, just as the Code of Battle required. Upon receiving it, Ablenariel Laeldor should have summoned his knights to meet her in battle. Or if he did not want to, he should have sent Ambrant Lightbrother to her with a request for parley.

He had done neither. Vieliessar’s army had crossed Laeldor unopposed.

As they went, the commonfolk of Laeldor flocked to her, hailing her as High King and swearing she was their lord. Gunedwaen questioned them, asking what they had seen of the movement of knights and supplies—for however Ablenariel meant to answer her, he would have needed to call up his levy knights—but always the answer was the same: Nothing. We have seen nothing.

“It is not possible,” Gunedwaen said in frustration. “You’ve had Landbond and Farmholders here from every steading within a hundred miles of our line of march. Landbond see everything—and not one of them has seen knights heading to muster. I’d say Ambrant Lightbrother just didn’t deliver your message, except—”

“Except that pompous windbag would never miss the chance to lecture a War Prince while doing his duty,” Thoromarth growled.

Vieliessar and her senior commanders sat at table in her pavilion. They had reached the keep itself and had set camp perhaps two miles from its walls. No one knew whether or not they would fight in the morning, but Vieliessar had ordered the feasts and victory sacrifices made just as if they would.

“Say the message wasn’t delivered,” Rithdeliel said. “Say, oh, his horse threw him and he broke his neck on the way to the keep. Or was eaten by wolves. By now someone would have mentioned our presence to Ablenariel, and he would’ve sent one of his Lightborn to demand we go home.”

“So he’s just pretending he hasn’t seen us,” Nadalforo said contemptuously. The former mercenary reached out with her dagger to skewer a chunk of meat from the platter in the middle of the table. “Fine for him. But do you think he had time to tell all his nobles his plan before we got here? We’ve been tromping over manorial lands for the last five days, and the only notice anyone takes of us is to come and try to join the army.”

Princess Nothrediel laughed, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “Well, it’s true, Father,” she said in answer to Thoromarth’s dark look. “It doesn’t make any sense! Laeldor can call—” She paused for a moment in thought. “—two score grand-tailles, just as we can. Although really closer to twelve, if you mean knights who can actually fight. They won’t all fit in the castel. And it’s at least a moonturn and a half before Caerthalien goes to meet Ullilion, so they are all still here.”

“And even if Caerthalien has demanded Laeldor’s support before time—it is possible, now that the Heir-Prince has lost so many of his father’s knights—someone would have seen the companies on the move,” Gunedwaen said.

Rithdeliel shook his head, but in bafflement, not disagreement. “Either Ablenariel knows we’ve challenged him, or he doesn’t. Either he has summoned his levy knights, or he hasn’t. All we know for certain is we haven’t seen them, and nobody else has, either.”

“You are too pessimistic, Lord Rithdeliel,” Vieliessar said, with grave humor. “We also know where Lord Ablenariel’s Great Keep is.”

Princess Nothrediel and Commander Nadalforo both laughed.

The day of the battle—if there was going to be one—dawned clear and cool. The army had taken its final orders from its captains the night before, and in the dim light before dawn its warriors moved into position around the keep. The craftworkers’ village was empty when the army reached it, and so were the stables. The craftworkers would have fled to the keep for safety at the army’s approach, but the absence of the horses implied a mounted force waiting to strike.

The only problem with that is none of my scouts have seen any indication of such a force, Vieliessar thought in irritation. There were surprises awaiting her today, and she hated that thought. She had done all she could against it: Nadalforo and her First Sword, Faranglis, commanded between them four grand-tailles, all former mercenaries. They did not stand with the main force, but instead rode in a wide circle around it, searching for the secret exit from Laeldor Great Keep and any who might use it.

The rest of the army was gathered before the keep.

From her visions of ancient times, Vieliessar knew that “infantry” had been placed in the first ranks of the army, and had attacked the enemy before the knights charged. But she hadn’t had enough time to spend working with either her army or the new infantry to feel confident in such tactics, so she placed them at the far edges of her formation. If the enemy attempted to flank her forces, her infantry could attack. For now she simply wanted them present, both to season them and to let her knights know they would be expected to fight in concert with troops fighting afoot.

War Prince Luthilion led Araphant’s Household guard. She had placed his forces on her tuathal side to honor him, knowing it was the dearest wish of his heart to die with a sword in his hand. She was certain the Araphant Guard would stand no matter what, for Luthilion was greatly loved and every one of his komen would die rather than dishonor him. The knight-levies of Araphant were soft with long absence from the field; she had separated the rest of them into single tailles and scattered them among her troops.

Ivrithir held the deosil, led into battle by Caragond Heir-Princess and her brothers and sisters. Vieliessar had left Ivrithir’s dispositions up to those who for years had led her knights into battle—or on raids across Oronviel’s border—taking only a few tailles to directly support her center. Doing so showed Ivrithir honor, since the tuathal side was Araphant’s.

Oronviel’s knights supported the tuathal side and made up the rest of the center. Two of Thoromarth’s four surviving children each led a grand-taille, one hundred forty-four knights. Prince Frochoriel of Oronviel had been left to hold Oronviel Keep in her absence and to keep guard over Princess Nanduil, who was still prisoner there—and who had no warcraft in any event.

Bethaerian raised her warhorn to her lips and blew the signal. From Vieliessar’s camp, the war drums boomed out their challenge: come and fight, come and fight, come and fight—

For many minutes, as the sun climbed higher and the day brightened into color, there was no response, and Vieliessar entertained the mad fantasy that the castel was empty, that Ablenariel and all his people had simply fled, leaving her to cry challenge to the empty stones. Perhaps Rithdeliel had been right and Ambrant Lightbrother had never reached Laeldor. Perhaps he had been summoned back to the Sanctuary to account for his actions in Rain Moon.

Perhaps the Starry Hunt has carried all of them off, and Laeldor will fall to me without a blow struck!

But at last there was movement upon the wall above the gatehouse. Lord Ablenariel had arrived.

The War Prince of Laeldor stood flanked by two warriors in the distinctive round cap-helm and mail shirt of castel guardsmen. He wore armor, but no helm. His Lady, Gemmaire, stood beside him, brilliant in silks and jewels, her long hair blowing in the morning breeze. Bethaerian blew another call on her warhorn, and in obedience, the drums rumbled into silence.

There were custom-hallowed words to speak now. Vieliessar would have ignored them, except that Ablenariel was inside his keep and she wanted him to come out. For one appalled moment she thought she had forgotten them, then she rose to standing in Sorodiarn’s stirrups and took a deep breath.

“Ablenariel Laeldor! I, Vieliessar Oronviel, challenge you to lawful battle! Come forth, for your honor and your lands! If you will not set your steel against mine, be known forever as coward!”

Behind her, around her, her knights and warriors erupted in wild cheering. Ablenariel stood silent as the cheering crested and died away, then he leaned over the battlements. “I see no War Prince here! Only a Sanctuary Mage who has forgotten her robes! Go home, little Lightborn! War is not for you!”

“Idiot,” Thoromarth muttered, just loud enough for Vieliessar to hear.

“Come forth, Ablenariel Laeldor! This is the second time of asking. Or do you refuse lawful challenge?” she called.

“If you won’t come yourself, send your old wet nurse!” Thoromarth bawled. “She’s probably a more valiant knight!” He looked toward Vieliessar, his eyes alight with the anticipation of battle. There was laughter from the massed ranks behind them. So far this was sport, as it had always been.

“It has been long since I rode to war,” Lord Luthilion said happily. “I thank you for this entertainment, Lord Vieliessar.”

“If there is pleasure to be had in it,” she said, turning toward him, “the pleasure is—”

Suddenly there was an arrow where no arrow had been, protruding from Lord Luthilion’s eye socket and quivering faintly. His hands came up, scrabbling at his face and knocking down the visor of his helm, and then he fell from the back of his destrier. The animal started forward, its nostrils flaring at the scent of blood, then stopped—as it had been trained to—at the absence of weight in its saddle.

There was a ragged cheer from the wall above the castel. At the sound, Vieliessar looked up. Ablenariel and his lady were gone, and one of the castel guard brandished his bow tauntingly.

Sound grew behind her as knowledge of what had happened spread. Cries built to shouts to a roar. She did not know if Ablenariel had given the archer the order to attack. She did not know if Lord Luthilion had been the target or if she had. She did not know whether Ablenariel had left the ramparts because he had been coming to parley or surrender, or trying to flee. None of those things mattered now. She had the sudden sense that this was a moment she could not control any more than she could control the storms of autumn. She might turn it to serve her purpose. Or she might be crushed beneath it. She had taken a thousand steps along this path, and each had been irreversible, but this would be the greatest. She raised her hand. All she felt was terror.

Preservation was a spell every Lightborn knew. It kept food from spoiling, meat from rotting, even ice from melting. But every spell had its opposite.

Rot.

The spell sped from her fingers as the arrow had sped from the bow. There had been a hundred spells laid on every element of the castel’s entrance. Vieliessar’s spell unmade them all, whether for preservation, for strength, or for endurance. Chains holding the doors of the Great Keep closed rusted away in instants. Bronze gears pitted and shattered. Rope frayed and snapped.

The doors of Laeldor Keep sprang open.

The force of their opening caused them to fall from age-crumbling hinges, caused the great doors to explode into rotted wood and splinters. The outer court was exposed. At its far end, the portcullis that blocked entrance to the Great Hall crashed down, its corroded bronze shattering on impact, leaving the castel defenseless. In that instant, Vieliessar spurred Sorodiarn forward. Behind her, howling for vengeance, came the knights of Araphant.

The outer courtyard was filled with mounted knights. Araphant’s knights—Luthilion’s personal meisne—closed with them, forcing them back in a tangle of swords and limbs and hooves. Beyond them, the doorway of the Great Hall gaped wide, its doors and bars shattered by decay. Vieliessar’s army pushed its way past the knights in the outer courtyard to gain the interior, and within moments, the Great Hall, too, was a battleground.

Vieliessar spared a thought for Ambrant—was he here? a prisoner?—but she could not stop to search for him and she did not stop to fight. Lord Ablenariel had been on the battlements only moments before: he could not have gone far. But every castel’s design was unique, and she did not know where the steps and the passageways were in Laeldor Keep. Abelnariel Laeldor might escape the castel entirely as she searched for him.

No! He will not!

She vaulted from Sorodiarn’s back, her steel sabatons ringing and slipping on the stone floor. She yanked off her gauntlet and slapped her bare hand against the wall, summoning the Light as she did. Knowing. With the casting of that spell, the whole shape of the castel unfolded behind her eyes, its corridors and secret passages, every mystery the stones held.

She ran.

Behind her she heard shouts. The clangor of metal. Screams. Was it like this in Farcarinon the night my father’s castel fell? She ran until she found a door that led to the inner courtyard. Across that peaceful, deserted space was a low wall with a door. When Vieliessar struck the door with the pommel of her sword, the rotted wood splintered. She dashed into the mews, which led up to the outer wall. Ablenariel must come down this staircase or know he would be trapped above the gatehouse until he died.

Behind her she heard a soft scrape of metal against stone. She checked and pivoted, bringing up her blade just in time to face attack from two dismounted knights. A vagrant thought slipped through her mind—I told Thoromarth the truth—as she closed with them, for nothing would serve her now but the battle skill Gunedwaen and Rithdeliel had taught her, candlemark by painful candlemark. There was not enough space to swing a sword, barely enough to move. She drew her dagger with her left hand as she forced them back. The passageway was narrow and neither of her foes was used to fighting afoot. One fell, floundering gracelessly under the weight of his armor, and she leaped over him, slamming her body into the second knight and driving her dagger through the eye-slit of his helm as his body struck the wall of the mews.

She was trying to yank her weapon free when the knight who had fallen dragged her from her feet. She fell backward, hearing a ringing of metal as her helm struck the stones, and the enemy knight knelt on her chest. For a frozen instant it seemed he could not figure out what to do next. Likely he had never faced such a situation in his life, fighting on foot and without his sword—Vieliessar realized she was lying on his blade. Then he grabbed her shoulders and began simply to batter her against the paving stones. Dazed, disoriented, she raised her sword, but it scraped harmlessly across his back; she did not have the angle for a strike.

Madness, to think she might die here, wrestling some unknown knight, but she would not use the Light to kill.

Then suddenly he was gone, lifted away. She scrabbled backward, clutching her sword, and saw Ambrant Lightbrother, his arm about the armored neck of the knight, looking stunned at what he had done.

He must have been on the wall with Ablenariel.…

“Go. Go,” she gasped, clawing her way to her feet, and Ambrant hesitated a moment longer, then shoved the knight forward, turned, and ran. The armored figure staggered, hands flailing. His sword lay on the stones, and the Code of Battle said a swordless knight was no lawful prey.

Vieliessar didn’t care. She had never cared, she had known from the first moments she had studied it that the Code was a toy that turned war into a pointless game. Now she felt sick with fury, filled with a rage so vast she could barely breathe. She had followed the Code when she had come against Laeldor, and Laeldor had slain Lord Luthilion, and though he had died as he would have wished to, that was somehow the blackest joke of all. She raised her sword and beat the nameless, faceless knight of Laeldor back, and back, and back again, as he raised empty hands to defend himself and cried out in surrender. He retreated until he fell backward over the body of the other knight she had slain, and then she stood over him, striking at his neck again and again, until the metal of his helm shifted and sheared, until dark blood spurted up and flowed out upon the stones.

Then she turned and ran.

Her sabatons slipped and clattered as she raced up the stairs, for the steps were steep and narrow and her armored boots were not meant for walking upon stone. She reached the broad outer wall upon which the sentries walked and stood for a moment, gazing around herself. The walkway was empty. Outside the castel, most of her army sat unmoving. There was no one outside the castel for them to fight, and no space for them to enter.

Then she saw movement. Ablenariel and Gemmaire crossed the ramparts above the gatehouse, moving in Vieliessar’s direction. They must have tried to go down the stairs on the far side and found them blocked. Six guardsmen clustered around Laeldor’s lord and lady. A castel’s guards were its watchmen and last defenders, but it so was unimaginably rare for a castel to be taken that it was unlikely they’d ever done battle face-to-face. Vieliessar ran forward, her sword in her hand. Ladyholder Gemmaire saw her first.

It seemed to Vieliessar that the defenders and the lord and lady in their charge moved as slowly as if they were executing the figures of an elaborate dance. Two of the guardsmen came toward her, pikes leveled. She flattened herself against the battlements as they reached her, and as they hesitated, she grabbed the pike of the outermost one and used it to fling him from the ramparts. The other guardsman clung to the battlements as he thrust his pike at her. She trapped the shaft of the heavy, clumsy weapon against the wall and struck low with her sword. The guardsmen wore chain mail and heavy boots, but no armor upon their legs. The guardsman’s face contorted in a soundless scream as he fell.

She felt rather than heard the first click of an arrow against her armor. Four guardsmen remained; the two at the front held bows in their hands. But they carried the horseman’s bow, not the walking bow. It would have taken both skill and luck to put an arrow through one of the eye-slits of her helm, and the shafts did not have power enough to penetrate her armor. They continued to nock and release as she approached, but just as she reached them, they threw down their weapons.

Go. She gestured broadly—speech was impossible in the din of battle. They edged backward, but were trapped between their enemy and their lord. Ladyholder Gemmaire was clutching her husband’s surcoat. He should have faced me, Vieliessar thought. He should have been willing to face me. Everyone held their places for a moment. Then Vieliessar took a step forward.

Ablenariel threw down his sword.

It bounced against the stone and fell with its hilt overhanging the edge of the walk. Ladyholder Gemmaire snatched for it, but too late. The blade overbalanced and fell.

The guardsmen slid past Vieliessar, their bodies pressed tightly against the battlements. Their lord had surrendered. All they wished to do was flee. Vieliessar gestured for Lord Ablenariel to remove his helmet, and when he had, she stepped forward and took it from him. Ladyholder Gemmaire flew at her, fingers curved into claws. Vieliessar struck her, backhanded. The spikes across the knuckles of her gauntlet ripped skin and Gemmaire staggered; Ablenariel grabbed her before she could fall.