Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE HERO TALE

Every war begins with its own hero tale, as if it were a great lord who had lived a long life and now has a story-song crafted to be sung over its funeral pyre. And any prince who clings to that story-song after a campaign begins will drink to drowning of the cup of defeat and loss, for a war is not a warrior, and no mortal prince can force the world to follow their whim as if they wear the cloak of the Starry Huntsman.

—Arilcarion War-Maker,

Of the Sword Road

“It took you long enough to get here,” Rithdeliel said.

“I thought we should see something of the countryside, since we’d come all this way,” Gunedwaen answered, and Rithdeliel laughed.

It was a full sennight since the disastrous battle in the storm. The great manor houses they had passed on their way to the keep had been utterly deserted, as destitute as if they had been sacked, and so Gunedwaen had dared to hope other parts of the High King’s army had escaped the enemy’s trap. But he had not truly believed until he saw Lord Rithdeliel riding toward him on his great grey destrier, two tailles of komen behind him.

“Come and see the castel instead, old friend! If we are crowded there—and we are—we are at least well fed!” He gestured to the knight-herald beside him. The knight-herald raised his horn and sounded a call, and Gunedwaen gestured to his own knight-herald.

That damned rascal’s lucky we still have a herald and a warhorn with us—but that’s a Caerthalien-bred Warlord for you: always sure the world will run as he wishes, and not as it wills … Gunedwaen thought sourly. Every Swordmaster was a cynic and pessimist; good fortune only made them suspicious.

As his knight-herald’s call echoed Rithdeliel’s, the komen behind Gunedwaen began to cheer. The sound grew louder as it was taken up by more and more of them, the impulse of it rolling backward through the ordered ranks in their formations, dipping as komen paused for breath, swelling anew as they shouted in loud fierce joy.

But Rithdeliel’s boast of triumph was—much as Gunedwaen had suspected—a show for the komentai’a. Once he was behind closed doors with Rithdeliel and the majority of the surviving War Princes—sour luck indeed to find so many of them here; if it had been left to Gunedwaen he would have dropped them all into Great Sea Ocean and called it a good day’s work—he heard a different tale.

Vieliessar High King was still missing.

“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” Gunedwaen demanded. “It’s been more than a sennight since the Alliance proved it could fight—they could have executed her by now!”

“They would have gotten around to mentioning it,” Lord Thoromarth said. “If you think Nilkaran Jaeglenhend doesn’t know where we are, you’re mistaken—Lord Rithdeliel threw his court out of the keep when we took it.”

From his seat by the window, Rithdeliel bowed ironically, not getting to his feet. “We kept the Heir-Prince,” he said. “And his extremely annoying sister. I believe they’re in the dungeons.”

“So Nilkaran knows you have his keep and his heir,” Gunedwaen said. “And you think—what? He’d ask the Alliance to trade Lord Vieliessar for them?”

“I think the Alliance would know where to send its knights-herald to show us her severed head and invite us to surrender,” Thoromarth answered caustically. “But they’re chasing their tails. Aradreleg Lightsister and the rest of our Green Robes escaped the Alliance and reached us yesterday morning. Aradreleg said the Alliance Lightborn lifted the storm so they could try to track Lord Vieliessar—so of course their wagons are now mired in mud. She’s got a plan to get our equipment back, too—if you don’t mind a little fighting.”

“You’ve got half the Lightborn of the West here,” Gunedwaen said. “Why don’t you just…?” He waved his hand wordlessly.

“Apparently Magery isn’t that useful unless you want to either strike somebody with a bolt of lightning or freeze them to death in a blizzard,” Kalides Brabamant said, sounding irritable. “I’ve seen Alasneh Lightsister Call my lady’s gloves across the castel dozens of times. But several thousand Lightborn cannot do the same for a few carts.”

Gunedwaen knew better than most Lightless what the limitations of the Light truly were. Even if the Lightborn could Call the contents of every baggage wagon to them—a thing by no means certain—all the living things would be left behind. “I’ve never objected to a fight,” he said mildly. “What is this plan?”

For nearly a two sennights since their capture, the surviving commons of the High King’s baggage train had followed the enemy army. They had no choice. Any who ran was cut down by komen on horseback or dragged back to the encampment to suffer a more lingering death. The escape of the Lightborn had been the only triumph they could claim, and it was little enough to warm shivering, ill-clad bodies or fill stomachs pinched with hunger.

But now the enemy had brought them to Jaeglenhend Great Keep.

Too far! Tunonil thought. We are still too far distant! It was almost a league from where the wagons stood to the castel walls—and the protection of the High King’s army. If the commonfolk tried to reach it afoot, they would surely be cut down as they ran. Nor could they bring with them the precious sumpter wagons. Those stood unmoving, their wheels spoked, for the Light’s Chosen of the High King had been Calling since dawn, and already their flocks of sheep and goats, horses and cattle, had headed the Call. Only the oxen and mules remained behind, shackled to their unmoving wagons, but even that was a victory for the High King, for it was not merely her wagons which must be held immobile, but all of them.

When Tunonil and all the rest had first been captured, the oxherds and muleteers had seized the best of their draft animals for their own wagons and carts, and now those beasts who could be Called were scattered throughout the combined baggage train. So the wagons stood motionless, and the komen armed themselves, and the War Princes shouted and argued over what was to be done and how.

The clamor of the war drums could be heard in the distance, and the warhorns sounded. The knights were calling for their destriers to be saddled and their weapons to be brought. Soon the two armies would clash.

At last the army rode forth. Even though these were the warriors of the enemy, sworn foes of the High King, they were a splendid sight to see, for every horse and rider wore bright silk and the armor of the komen was as bright as butterfly wings. Behind the warhorses and the wearers of bright armor and silks came a second army of servants. Their palfreys were laden with baskets of food and drink, for the great lords went to war as to a festival, and among the servants rode the Light’s Chosen who served the enemy.

“You! Get down from there! This wagon isn’t going anywhere, so get to work, you lazy brute!”

The speaker was no great lord, but he carried a whip, and no Landbond’s life was held dear by any but themselves. Tunonil climbed down from the wagon bench. The carts were being unloaded and their contents laid upon the ground, and he could see that other prisoners were already carrying baskets, boxes, rugs, and chairs to the place where the servants meant to set their masters’ encampment. Even the paddocks and the horselines were being prepared for their masters’ return, though there was not now a single horse in the whole of the camp, for most had fled candlemarks ago and the rest had been ridden to war.

The work was hard, though Tunonil was used to hard work and there were many hands to help. But they had all been days with scant food and little water. Burdens he had carried lightly and eagerly in the High King’s service were now nearly too heavy to lift. And those servants of the enemy ordered to labor beside them rejoiced in making their tasks harder, pushing and tripping them just to see them fall. Tunonil was only glad matters were no worse, and he was surprised to find—when he returned to the carts for another load—that great barrels of beer and cider and water had been taken down and opened, and they were not stopped from drinking their fill. Cider was sweet indeed to the starved and the thirsty, and if the servants of the enemy jealously claimed all the beer for their own, what did that matter?

In the distance there was a sudden great upswelling of sound, as warriors shouted, drums boomed, and warhorns cried. The ground—even this far away from the charging destriers—trembled.

The battle had begun.

It was on his third return to the carts that Tunonil saw Light’s Chosen going among the wagons, with servants behind them. At each wagon they paused, and laid a hand upon the brow of the beasts yoked there. If the Light’s Chosen nodded, the servants would unhitch the animal. If they shook their heads, it was left in its traces. At first it seemed their work was random, but as he watched he saw that each one they uncoupled or unyoked moved eagerly toward the Great Keep.

It seemed madness and rebellion, but after a few moments Tunonil understood what was happening. The Light’s Chosen meant to drive the carts to the battlefield, to bear away the wounded for Healing as they had always done. For that reason, they separated the High King’s beasts from their own to be sure of driving teams that answered to no one but their masters.

By now the lesser servants reeled with drunkenness and beer, singing and shouting gaily to one another, for the kegs of strong ale had been many, intended for twice the number who drank of them, and to be thinned with water besides. Some worked, some idled, some crept off to sleep. It was then that Tunonil saw the shape of what the High King’s people must do to win their freedom. No one would trust the High King’s people to do the work of preparing pavilion, kitchen, or larder, so once the pavilions had been set, their labor was finished. They could not make their escape unnoticed or unseen. But they could go at a time when no one who saw them would dare to follow. All the lords had ridden forth, and there was no one remaining with the authority to rule over the servants of every House.

In murmured half-sentences, Tunonil passed the plan to as many as he dared, for it was important for them all to remain together. He was soon glad he had done so, for the enemy was not one army, but many. The servants of this House treated them as enemies, while the servants of that House said that if they would pledge themselves to obedience once more, they would be fed and clothed and nothing would be said of their flight. And the servants of yet another House asked no promise of submission, but said food would be found for the children if they would bring them once the kitchens were ready. To all who spoke, the prisoners returned words that were soft and meaningless, and when the servants of the enemy became occupied with their tasks, the High King’s people slipped away.

For the first time, Tunonil could see the battlefield clearly, and when the wind shifted, he could smell the blood.

The fighting had spread out across the field in front of the Great Keep, and eastward as well. There was a great earthwork surrounding the castel—new, for Tunonil could see the raw earth of it—and it divided each army into two forces, fighting on either side of it. Riderless destriers galloped through the battle, and here and there he saw flashes of bright purple light. The castel’s battlements were lined with Light’s Chosen, and now and again the front wall of the castel flickered with the same light. Tunonil could not tell who was winning.

The refugees did not walk directly toward the Great Keep, for that would be to walk into the battle. But a little distance from the western wall of the Great Keep was a stand of trees, and some of the oxen that had been freed from the wagons could be seen moving toward them with steady deliberation. Tunonil knew both armies would avoid that place—the enemy, because he feared it held the High King’s archers; the High King’s warriors because it did not. It was there that the High King’s people would wait.

If they reached it alive.

“At least no one is calling down storm or lightning,” a woman walking beside him said. “It is why the War Princes are not holding back their reserves—see?”

She had to put her mouth close beside his ear to be heard, for the sound of the battle was like the bellowing of an ox and the clanging of a smith’s hammer and the roar of a stormwind all commingled and magnified a thousandfold.

“Such knowing is not for mere Landbonds,” Tunonil said ungraciously. The woman was not someone he knew, but more than a few of the enemy’s servants had seized upon this chance for freedom.

“Fool!” the woman said. “Do you think I was born in silk and silver? I was born a Landbond, just as—”

She broke off as a knight galloped toward them. There was barely a mile between them and the edges of the battle, and as soon as they’d seen the enemy knight he was almost upon them. Many screamed and ran—as if that might save them—but just as the knight drew his sword, the purple light appeared before him. Horse and rider struck it as if they struck a wall, and fell to the ground, both dead. A cheer went up from the people at the sight, and Tunonil’s heart filled with joy.

“You see the High King has not forgotten us, even in the heat of battle,” he said to the woman beside him. “Can you say such of your great lord?”

“Are you disordered in your wits?” she demanded. “I spit on Aramenthiali! Do you suppose I could return to the encampment and take up my life again? How long before Heart-Seeing was set upon the servants of Lord Manderechiel’s tent and it was discovered I lied when I said I had his order from Lord Malanant to prepare the tents?” She spoke loudly enough now that those nearest could hear.

Wide-eyed, Tuonil said, “That was you?” Truly, this was a deed worth remembering, and telling over so that the tale could be passed on forever.

“Think you I acted alone?” the woman of Aramenthiali demanded. She made a sweeping gesture that took in the plodding thousands ahead of them. “I would swear to you that a hundred—a thousand—more—of those here served the High Houses this morning! How think you so many kegs of ale came to be set out? Or you found yourselves excused from your labors so conveniently? Even the Lightborn … I do not say they have joined your cause, but tell me, you who know all—from what noble families do the Lightborn come?”

“From none,” another woman answered. “All know the Light favors the commons. It is our recompense for lives of labor and hardship.”

“And so some of them were willing to say they believed my words, and if the camp were to be set, why should they not prepare to bring the wounded for Healing? Easy enough to bring back fleeing beasts once the battle was won,” the woman said.

Another group of knights galloped from the battle, intent on attacking the refugees. The two in the lead galloped into walls of purple light and died, just as the first had, but the ones behind them had enough warning to rein in. Tunonil hoped they would simply return to the battle once they saw their prey was not undefended, but instead they moved forward at a walk. The marchers began to scatter. Tunonil froze where he stood.

Then one attacker began to beat at his arms and chest—Tunonil could see the bright silk of his garments had gone grey with frost—and the silks of another burst into flames, so that his warhorse galloped madly forward to batter itself against another wall of purple.

The remaining knights turned and galloped back toward the battle.

At last—welcome sight!—Tunonil saw the Light’s Chosen of the High King riding down the line on horseback, to see if all was well.

“Are you the last? Are more coming? Oh praise to the Light, Tunonil—I did not think you would survive!” Aradreleg Lightsister said as she reached them.

“Takes more than hard work and light feeding to kill a Landbond,” Tunonil answered gruffly.

“Are you the last?” Aradreleg repeated, and Tunonil nodded.

“No more. Some may have stayed, but—Mistress High House here says some of their folk are with us.”

The woman from Aramenthiali tried to glare at him, but the relief of freedom was too sweet. “My name is Tance,” she said. “Not ‘Mistress High House.’”

“I’ll bring you to the gathering place so you can rest. There’s not much there, but there’s water … and pikes. Lord Rithdeliel said if you managed to escape, you should be ready to fight.”

“Is there a bow?” Tance asked. “I was a forester in Lord Malanant’s household.”

“A forester?” Aradreleg said. “Praise the Light indeed! Your skills are welcome! Come—Tunonil, help her mount; I am needed elsewhere, and she is as well—”

Tance looked stunned at the swift change in her fortunes, but did as Aradreleg said. A moment later, they galloped away.

It was dusk by the time Tunonil heard the hornsong that signaled the High King’s victory and the enemy’s retreat. It was much like the end of every battle Tunonil had ever seen. Wounded knights moaned or shouted, wounded horses screamed, dogs howled and barked as they ran among the fallen. Uncounted hundreds of gleaners walked the battlefield, separating living from dead, friend from foe, and shooing away the ravens that had come in the thousands to gorge. Before morning, all that would lie upon the field would be the naked bodies of the enemy dead: their own dead would be brought back and prepared for the fire. Tunonil had learned that the High King was not here—but safe, safe, everyone agreed—so he wondered what would become of the enemy knights abandoned here if they could not pledge fealty to her.

He hoped they, too, would lie naked and abandoned on the field in the dawn light.

The end of the battle was only the beginning of the work for those who had not fought, though few grudged the labor now that they were the High King’s folk once again. There were horses to saddle, mules to catch and rope together, and oxen to collect and match into their familiar teams, for now the wagons they’d left behind must be brought to their encampment.

Tunonil had asked what was to keep the enemy from destroying their undefended wagons, and Harwing Lightbrother had laughed.

“Why, we are, of course! They won’t burn them or loot them or even carry them away while Shield is set upon them! We have been watching the wagons all day, as carefully as we watched the battle, and no one has gone near.”

Tunonil led his oxen back to the wagons. Even though the last light of day still brightened the sky, globes of wonder-glow had been set shining here. When he reached the carts, Tunonil saw knights, blood-spattered and weary, sitting their destriers in a line between the workers and the camp of the enemy—and beside them, rank upon rank of Light’s Chosen. He unblocked the wagon’s wheels, set the yoke upon the oxen’s necks, then coaxed them into place along the tree and chained the yoke to the shaft.

Once up on the wagon’s high seat, Tunonil looked back. Half the pavilions he and his fellows had labored to set were down again, and some were being put back up. He didn’t see the enemy army, but he didn’t stay to look.

The High King had won. That was all that mattered.

To be a War Prince possessed of a Name and a growing legend had its advantages, Vieliessar discovered. Border Lord Karamedheliel, master of Jaeglenhend’s Oakstone Tower, did not need to be convinced that her word was good and her dealings fair; nor did Vieliessar, for her part, fear secret rebellion. She did not plan to remain here for long, but neither did she mean to ride forth blindly and unprepared. And so, on the second night after she had taken Oakstone Tower, she retired to her bedchamber—once Karamedheliel’s—before the evening meal. It was not the soft bed Vieliessar yearned for as much as for a door that could be spell-locked. She had never dared to do this while on the march. There were too many calls upon her time, too many urgencies. And while a tent flap could have the same spell set upon it, anyone determined to enter need merely cut the fabric of the pavilion. And she dared not be interrupted while she was Farspeaking.

With all that had happened, it was hard to bring herself to the state of calm her spell required. Even the relief she felt at spell-locking the door of the sleeping chamber did not bring relief, so she wove ward after ward about the room until the walls sang with Magery, taking comfort in the familiar discipline. Silence and Protection and Silence again, until the space began to take on the heavy quiet of one of the meditation chambers in the Sanctuary. She had never realized what a luxury it was to live behind Wards and walls until she left them behind forever.

Her spellkit—once Celeharth’s—had been lost with her baggage train. But she had found a way to make do. From a chest in the corner she took a stone teapot and a delicate cup of moon-pale shin’zuruf. She had been surprised but pleased to find these items among Karamedheliel’s possessions. Most welcome of all was a tiny brazier, only large enough to hold one charcoal disk. The brazier was very old, carved of white jade with the design of a herd of running unicorns, a golden bowl for the charcoal set in the top. Gazing at it, Vieliessar thought back suddenly to the day she had gone to Earime’kalareinya to sacrifice for victory in battle. Even now, the memory of the Unicorn’s radiant beauty, glimpsed and lost, made her heart ache when she thought of it.

Recognizing her mind’s attempts to delay her, she opened another box and chose a disk of charcoal, setting it carefully into the brazier’s golden bowl. She placed the brazier on top of the chest, then set the charcoal alight with a thought. Iardalaith had given her a wooden canister of tea, and another of incense. Now she shook loose tea into the teapot, then filled it with hot water from the kettle. As she waited for the tea to steep, she opened the incense box and teased out the tiny bone spoon inside, then scooped a small mound of incense crystals onto the charcoal. At once they began to bubble and melt, and soon the sweet, rich scent of incense filled the chamber. When the tea was ready, she poured her cup full. The cool sweetness of the tea mingled with the warm sweetness of the incense, familiar and soothing.

By the time she’d finished two cups of tea, the calm sense of weight she’d always somehow associated with complex and delicate Magery had settled over her. She folded the bed’s coverlet to serve as a cushion and settled herself upon the thickly carpeted floor.

Thurion? Thurion, are you there?

Since the day she had sent him to the Grand Windsward, Vieliessar had tried to Farspeak him as often as she could. But the Windsward was so far to the east that it might be afternoon there even when night had fallen in the West. And Farspeech only worked when both Lightborn had minds that were still and quiet, awaiting the message. They had missed each other as often as not. The last time she had been able to contact him, she had been in Ceoprentrei.

She could no longer easily recall how many sennights had passed since then.

For long moments she called and received no reply. She was about to give up when:

“Vielle? It has been so long! Are you well?”

She opened her inward eyes and saw what she expected to: the image of a chamber in some Grand Windsward castel.

“We reached the Uradabhur safely enough. Things have not gone well since.”

She quickly told him the whole: the battle with Jaeglenhend, the Alliance’s pursuit, her defeat in battle, her flight. “I can only hope my people survive, but I fear for those who lie in the Alliance’s hands. I hold the fealty of twenty-five Houses, Thurion. Take my army and my life, and the High Houses become rich. They intend to execute all who have sworn fealty to me and divide their domains among themselves.”

“And they have every reason to choose that course,” Thurion said slowly. “Why should they fear the vengeance of the Silver Hooves when it did not fall upon them for the destruction of Farcarinon? But this could help us. Once word spreads that the High Houses now follow a strategy of conquest and annexation…” There was a long pause as Thurion sought for words. “Many will see that choosing your side will allow them to retain their lives, if not their sovereignty. Gain enough Houses, and even this Alliance cannot stand against you.”

This disconcertingly insightful analysis of a situation Thurion hadn’t even known about a tenth-candlemark before only made Vieliessar miss him more keenly.

“If I yet have more army than the handful that accompanied me in my flight. I shall try to reach Aradreleg next, to see what news she can give me. If she lives,” Vieliessar added softly, for Aradreleg had been among those captured, and though no War Prince would execute her, any Lightborn might choose to. “But tell me your news,” she urged. “I need your council. And my own situation I know.”

She felt him laugh just a little. “My news is much as it was the last time we spoke, save for this: the Silver Swords leave within the sennight. Master Kemmiaret swears he will bring the Silver Swords across the Arzhana before the passes to the Uradabhur close.”

“And what does Melchienchiel Penenjil say?” Vieliessar asked.

“She says she will come—this season if she can. But you know she will be more cautious with the rest of her meisne. The southern route isn’t wide or gradual enough for supply wagons, and the northern route is held by Nantirworiel. Methothiel Nantirworiel usually doesn’t care who uses the pass so long as they pay, but—”

“—but it’s different when he’s being asked to let an enemy army through,” she finished for him. “If the Silver Swords would like to conquer Nantirworiel on their way west, that would be very useful to me.”

“I’ll mention that to Master Kemmiaret,” Thurion answered dryly. “The Houses that have declared for you are all mustering their meisnes. Kerethant and Enerchelimier join Penenjil on the march. I think Artholor and Hallorad also plan to come at once, but they lie east of Penenjil and neither will risk a Windsward crossing or an ascent of the Feinolon Range in bad weather. And if the weather turns early, all of them will stay in the Windsward until spring rather than be forced to winter in the Arzhana.”

“And rather than ask their Lightborn to divert the storm—or open the passes,” Vieliessar said.

“Yes,” Thurion said regretfully. “It is much to ask of them.”

Vieliessar sighed in acceptance. “They will come when they will come. At least they are willing to try.” As much as she might rail against the indecisiveness of the Windsward Houses, she would not herself have chosen a course that would force her army to overwinter in a hostile place. As if I had any choice about it, she thought wryly.

“I would conjure summer myself, if it would get me to you faster,” Thurion said. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I, you,” she answered, swallowing hard. “I wish you were here now. I could use your wisdom.”

“Any aid I can give you from this distance, I give you gladly. You know that,” he answered.

“I hope I shall always know enough to value my true friends,” she replied impulsively. The grief and longing she heard in her words was so raw it made her wish she hadn’t spoken.

“I promise I will always be that,” Thurion answered quietly. “But come. Tell me what you need.”

She had tried to reach him on impulse, not truly believing she would manage it, and the pleasure in the contact had allowed her to forget the war for a few moments. But now—

“I need to find the Flower Forest of Tildorangelor,” she blurted. “And I have no idea where to look!”

There was a long, meditative pause.

“I don’t know where it is either, Vielle. But I could find it with enough time—and power,” Thurion answered.

“What are you saying?” Vieliessar asked sharply.

“You took the same lessons I did from Rondithiel Lightbrother, and I am sure he has not changed his lectures from one century to another,” Thurion said.

“Probably not,” Vieliessar said. “And since he is here, I can hear them again any time I wish to.”

Thurion laughed. “I would not dare dream of such great fortune! You are truly blessed. But listen. For spells such as Fetch and Send we must know exactly where we are touching with our Magery. But not to use Door,” Thurion continued, in the cheerful tones of a patient instructor. “Door is a spell that requires great power, and that is why we are taught to cast it only between Flower Forests. And why did Rondithiel Lightbrother say that was?”

“He said it is because within the Light there is only one Flower Forest, which makes no sense at all,” Vieliessar said. “But—”

“But it is true, at least in a sense,” Thurion said. “The Flower Forests all touch one another in the Light. Have you never reached through a nearer Flower Forest to a more distant one? Oh, no, of course you have not,” Thurion said hastily, sounding embarrassed and contrite. “You were not taught to Heal on the battlefield. If you had been, you would know. With enough time, power will flow into the Flower Forest you have tapped from those more distant, but often we cannot wait. So we reach for the distant ones directly. We can, because they all touch.”

“But you can only do that within a domain,” Vieliessar said slowly. That much she knew to be true.

“Yes,” Thurion answered patiently. “The boundaries of domains are bespelled so that one domain cannot drain the power from all the Flower Forests of the land. But that does not mean they are not all linked. If they were not, how could anyone use Door across domain boundaries?”

Vieliessar said nothing. Some of what Thurion spoke of—the philosophy that underlay Magery—made sense to her. Much, she suspected, had been laid down like traps and snares to keep the Lightborn from thinking beyond the rote proscriptions handed down from Mosirinde’s time.

“But that has nothing to do with the question you asked,” Thurion went on. “You can go from any Flower Forest to any other, and so you can go to Tildorangelor as well.”

“With enough time and power,” Vieliessar said. And neither is in great supply. Between us, we and the Alliance have already nearly drained Jaeglenhend’s Flower Forests. It did much to explain why, if the matter was as simple as Thurion said, Amrethion’s city had never yet been discovered. First one would have to believe it existed, and then, allow some powerful Lightborn the liberty to spend years seeking it. “I thank you for your counsel, my friend. I will speak with you again as soon as I may.”

“The Light go with you,” Thurion answered quietly, and the spell was sundered.

It was long before she could steel herself to reach for Aradreleg. Failure will mean nothing, she told herself firmly. Only that she is somewhere from which she may not answer. Not death. Celenthodial Flower Queen—say she still lives!

To her delight and relief, Aradaleg answered her at once. And when she had finished telling Vieliessar all that had happened in the last sennight, Vieliessar began to hope once more.

Rithdeliel had taken Jaeglenhend Keep.

She still had a chance to win.

At dawn two days later, Vieliessar mounted her destrier at the head of her party. From all Aradreleg had told her, the Alliance was well aware the keep had fallen. Since the Alliance hadn’t followed her to Oakstone Tower, Jaeglenhend Keep was its next logical target. Smash her army and they would be free to hunt her down at their leisure.

So they believe. But I am not prey to be hunted.

I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, and I will be High King.

By the time Runacarendalur and his sortie party crossed into Jaeglenhend’s manorial lands, he knew the Alliance was in trouble. Manor house and Farmhold alike were burnt out and stripped bare.

“A War Prince without lands is just another landless knight. Their komen will desert them and come begging for the scraps from our tables.…” Bolecthindial’s careless words echoed mockingly in Runacarendalur’s memory.

“It looks as if a battle was fought here,” Helecanth observed, reining in beside him.

“Not a battle,” Runacarendalur answered, hating the note of anguish in his voice. “A retreat.”

He’d left Vieliessar’s army without supplies and thought to starve it into surrender. The tactic should have worked: Vieliessar’s vassal War Princes were the leaders of her army. He’d counted on them to do as the Alliance War Princes would have done in their place: quarrel over precedence, demand terms of surrender, or simply abandon the rebel cause, taking their meisnes with them. He’d expected them to fall into disorder and strife. He’d counted on it. But somehow—even without Vieliessar—they’d kept order. And to provision themselves as they rode north, they’d ravaged the countryside with terrifying efficiency.

“You’ve executed their entire households, and the Lightborn will bear them word of that…”

Every Ladyholder or Consort-Prince the Alliance had taken captive, every Heir-Prince or Heir-Princess who hadn’t been on the field, every favorite servant … the War Princes of the Alliance, certain of victory, had taken revenge on all those in their power. It was little consolation to know the princes wouldn’t have listened to him if he’d warned them against it. But he’d been as blind and overconfident as anyone.

“Why couldn’t we see it?” he said aloud. “Why couldn’t I see it?”

“Lord Runacarendalur?” Helecanth said, worried.

“What are you waiting for, Rune?” Ivrulion said, riding up. He looked over the stubble of the fields, the stumps of the orchards, the smoke-blackened shells of the manor house and outbuildings. “If I were Lord Nilkaran, I’d petition Vondaimieriel for a remission of my tithes for the next decade or so.”

Runacarendalur bit back the furious words he wished to say. Ivrulion’s pretence of being a loyal and devoted servant to Caerthalien’s Line Direct galled Runacarendalur like iron chains. On their way here, he’d tested the length of the leash Ivrulion held. So far as he could tell, his will was his own, save in three things.

He could not speak of the Bonding between himself and Vieliessar Farcarinon.

He could not kill Ivrulion.

And he could not kill himself.

He’d tried each of these actions a number of times without success, but did not yet hold himself defeated. Perhaps he could write down what he could not speak of. Perhaps he could order one of his vassals to slay Ivrulion, or tell Bolecthindial some story that would accomplish the same purpose—though even Runacarendalur’s imagination faltered at the prospect of spinning a tale that would cause Bolecthindial Caerthalien to execute one of the Lightborn. He might say anything he liked—so long as he did not speak of his Bonding—but to accuse Ivrulion of treachery would do nothing but make him look disordered in his wits.

“They’re loyal to her,” Runacarendalur said bleakly. The realization came too late.

Ivrulion studied him through narrowed eyes. “They don’t have any choice,” he said after a moment.

“We didn’t give them any,” Runacarendalur answered. As you have given me none, faithless betrayer.

From the moment he first set foot upon the Sword Road, Runacarendalur had ridden to war thinking of victory, not death. Victory was sweet and good, and death, though glorious, put an end to the joys of war. But now death—his death—had become the only possible road to victory.

If he could claim it. For now, he touched his spurs to Gwaenor’s flanks and urged the stallion into a trot. Where are they? Thousands of komen can’t just vanish.

When the riders appeared from behind a distant building, all he could make out at first was their green surcoats. He brought Gwaenor to a stop and raised his hand. The sortie party waited tensely, not knowing whether they would be attacking in the next few moments or fleeing from a superior force.

But …

“That is young Gothael,” Helecanth said suddenly. “I know him.”

She glanced toward Runacarendalur. He nodded, and she raised the warhorn to her lips and sounded the Caerthalien rally call. At the sound, the scouts spurred their mounts from a trot to a gallop.

“Prince Runacarendalur, what news?” Komen Gothael said, as he brought his palfrey to a halt.

“None,” Runacarendalur answered. “We’ve been four days on the road from the southern border. We’ve seen neither Landbond nor enemy.”

Gothael grimaced. “The enemy is at the Great Keep, my lord. We’ve just come from there.”

“Hilgaril, Prince Runacarendalur,” Gothael’s companion said, introducing herself. “The army fought there two days. All the Line Direct lives. Princess Angiothiel distinguished herself greatly.”

“My sister took the field?” Runacarendalur said in disbelief, unable to stop himself. Angiothiel—unlike her twin—had still been a maiden knight, for she’d never ridden to battle.

“What outcome?” Ivrulion asked sharply.

“The army prepares to fight again, Lord Ivrulion,” Hilgaril said.

“We lost,” Runacarendalur said flatly.

There was an awkward silence, as neither komen wanted to agree with him, whether it was true or not. “Report,” Runacarendalur said at last.

Both Gothael and Hilgaril were veteran scouts: their report was brief and to the point. Upon receiving word that Jaeglenhend Great Keep had fallen to the rebels, the army had turned to attack it, and had met the rebel force outside its walls. It had fought two battles there but had not gained the victory. Their losses had been relatively light … but neither army had offered a parley truce for the purpose of prisoner exchange or ransom. The army had decamped at dawn and was heading for the eastern border. Scouting parties were flanking the army’s line of march to collect wandering destriers, locate any komen who might have ridden from the field and been overcome by their wounds, and round up livestock and servants who had been scattered during the battle.

Runacarendalur could fill in the details Gothael and Hilgaril either didn’t know or didn’t wish to repeat: the War Council had decided it couldn’t win while the rebels held the Great Keep, and was hoping to lure them away from it by retreating toward Keindostibaent.

An idiotic plan; they’ll only leave when they’re ready to.

That the livestock had scattered meant either that Rithdeliel had attacked the Alliance’s camp—or that all their servants had simply fled during the battle. Some certainly had, undoubtedly hoping to join the enemy once their masters had left. That was bad enough, but that they had fought without a parley truce was worse. He knew it was unlikely that neither army had taken prisoners and he knew without having to ask that the War Council hadn’t thought of keeping the komen they’d captured alive as bait.

We are becoming lower than the Beastlings, he thought wildly. Slaughtering brave warriors without concern for the Code of Battle, just as if Arilcarion War-Maker had never lived.

Thankfully he’d schooled himself to stoicism by the time the scouts reached the worst of their news, for it was bad indeed. In the course of the fighting, the enemy had managed to retake not only their wagons and supplies, but the captive commons and livestock as well—and when the horses had bolted, they’d taken most of the loose Alliance horses with them.

So all we accomplished in the last fortnight is to harden their resolve—and gift them with some additional horses! He gritted his teeth. The temptation to speak that thought aloud was great.

“And Vieliessar Farcarinon?” he asked.

“They fought in her name, Prince Runacarendalur,” Hilgaril said. “But she did not take the field.”

That’s because she’s still somewhere in the southern Barrens, Runacarendalur thought wearily. We’re between her and her army. And not one member of this so-called War Council will believe that if we just cordon Jaeglenhend from the Tamabeths all the way to Sadrunath Dales, either she or her army will have to try something stupid to get past us. No. They think she’s going somewhere, and they want to stop her. Don’t they see that going somewhere isn’t the point?

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “You’ve been very helpful.” Ivrulion looked at him suspiciously; Runacarendalur ignored him. “We ride now to rejoin the army.”

And prepare for the next honorless, graceless slaughter.

He no longer cared how Vieliessar had duped her vassal lords into mindless loyalty, nor cared that he’d become no more than his mad brother’s puppet. While he lived, he would fight. Vieliessar meant to destroy everything the Hundred Houses had spent a hundred centuries building.

And Runacarendalur meant to stop her.

Ten days after she left Oakstone Tower, Vieliessar reached Jaeglenhend Keep. She encountered the first pickets three leagues from its walls, and by the time she reached its gates, half the army had turned out to accompany her. They cheered her; komen tossing their swords in the air and making their destriers dance and rear, infantry and commons walking at the stirrups of those who had returned. It was as if the day had suddenly become Festival Fair. If this was devotion, Vieliessar wasn’t sure who—or what—its object was. All she knew was such fervor made her profoundly uneasy, even though she’d forged it into a tool to serve her ends.

“It’s all very well to ask people to die for you when you think you understand why they’re doing it, isn’t it?” Nadalforo said quietly.

“I’ve never asked anyone to die for me,” Vieliessar answered, keeping her voice equally soft. It was an effort.

“No,” Nadalforo agreed. “For your cause. For Amrethion’s Prophecy. You’ll find they don’t care about any of that. They’ll die for you, not for a dream.”

But that is all I am, Nadalforo. A dream.

It was the next afternoon before she could gather her commanders together in a formal meeting to hear what had happened in her absence and to give new orders, for the day and much of the night had been occupied with celebrations and processions. So many of her folk had wished to see her with their own eyes that she had spent candlemarks simply riding through the whole of the camp.

She’d thought to hold back the reason and the destination, but the army she had returned to was a very different thing from the army she’d left. In the beginning, she’d gathered the lords to her with the promise of freedom from High House oppression and the commons with the promise of justice—but now there was no lord who did not mourn murdered kin or vassal, no commonborn who had not suffered anew at the hands of the enemy. Vieliessar had cast aside the Codes of War that turned war from a tragedy into a sport, but she’d never thought about what would come of it. Once she had been all that held her army together. Now they would have fought even without her.

Without quarter, without mercy, and without regret.

So she told them their destination was a legend-place beyond the bounds of any map, knowing now that they would have followed if she’d told them it was the Huntsman’s castel in the winter stars.

It took them a sennight to ready themselves. As soon as they marched away from Jaeglenhend Keep, the Warhunt scattered across the land, bringing the word to every steading, croft, and Farmhold: Nilkaran is dead. The High King leads her army to freedom. Will you come?

They came.

What the commons could not carry with them, they burned. Those who were not willing to come because the Green Robes asked came because their cousins, their sisters, or their greatsires did.

Vieliessar’s army swept eastward.

She angled her line of march enough to the north that the Alliance force was in no position to either attack or block her. By the time they realized she meant to ignore them instead of engaging, she had drawn east of their position and was able to swing south again. The Alliance followed Vieliessar into Keindostibaent, where War Prince Annobeunna Keindostibaent was at war with Vithantael Consort-Prince. Annobeunna and most of her army joined Vieliessar, and in her absence, the Alliance proclaimed Vithantael War Prince of Keindostibaent.

In Keindostibaent, Vieliessar had stolen a few precious candlemarks to attempt to use what Thurion had taught her. But whether or not it was even possible, her Lightborn had already taken too much from the Flower Forests of this land for her Seeking spell to work, rushing to cast needed spells before the Alliance Lightborn crossed the border.

She did not find Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor.

By the beginning of Woods Moon the two armies had settled into a grim, slow chase. The Alliance followed too closely for Vieliessar’s force to risk stopping even for a day, but too far behind for them to close and fight.

And every day the gap between the two armies narrowed.

Soon enough we’ll have to fight, Vieliessar thought. With swords once more.

The two armies already fought a war of provision and resource. Vieliessar’s people scoured the countryside for anything they could use. In their wake, the Alliance found empty storehouses, empty granaries, empty barns and sheepfolds. If the Alliance wanted to provision itself, it would have to break off its pursuit, and once it did, no matter how far it ranged, it would discover afresh what she’d known from the first: no one domain held enough of anything to supply either of their armies. What the Alliance would demand would be impossible for any domain to give, and what wasn’t freely given, the Alliance would inevitably take. It would leave behind it an enemy instead of a subject Less House, and not gain enough of the thousand things an army must have. And any time the Alliance stopped to forage—or besiege—Vieliessar would gain precious time to widen the distance between them.

It wouldn’t be enough to allow her to escape without doing battle.

They crossed from Keindostibaent into Sarmiorion as Woods Moon became Hearth, and once more the needs of Vieliessar’s Lightborn lay heavily upon the Flower Forests. Magery could no longer be used for the homely comforts her princes had been used to. The power they could draw from the Flower Forests must be reserved to protect them from the enemy.

The weather had held for sennights—a minor miracle, with all the Weather Magery the Lightborn of both sides had worked—but now it turned at last, and neither side had the ability to stop it. The snow should have decreased the influx of refugees flocking to Vieliessar’s banner, but did not.

Ladyholder Varelotiel had joined her lord while the Alliance force was still in Jaeglenhend, bringing all of Sarmiorion’s Lords Komen and their whole meisne. Glasswall Free Company rested quietly upon its grant lands as its Ladyholder prepared to march. Captain Natrade told Varelotiel she had no interest in riding to war in winter and since Varelotiel hadn’t wanted to take the time required to persuade Glasswall’s commander to accept such a contract, she’d ridden west without them.

As soon as she’d left, Glasswall Free Company besieged and sacked Sarmiorion Great Keep before riding west as well. Those they left behind were helpless without their masters to keep order, easy prey for any who chose to set themselves in a position of rule—or those outlaws who saw the chaos in the Uradabhur as an opportunity to enrich themselves. The folk of Sarmiorion rallied to Vieliessar.

Sarmiorion’s outcast servants and abandoned laborers approached the Alliance army, begging for food, for shelter, for their War Prince and Ladyholder’s protection. They were driven away again and again, but the desperate persisted … and the truly desperate tried to steal. In the stillness of the night, screams from the Alliance camp would carry across the space that lay between the two encampments, going on for candlemarks until at last they became too faint to hear. Each night the screams would begin again.

It was worse, somehow, not to hear those screams because of the bespelling of her pavilion’s walls. Vieliessar found herself awakening in the night, straining her ears against the silence, knowing she’d hear nothing but the breathing of those sleeping around her. When the weather had turned, every pavilion had become a dormitory, for to sleep out of doors was to court death.

Another sennight would see both armies in Niothramangh. I would not wish to be Mengracharth Niothramangh, Vieliessar thought grimly. He has many choices, none of them good. If he didn’t surrender what the Alliance demanded, he’d be named rebel and outlaw. If he gave all, his own people would starve. Let his people starve, and they would join the roving bands from Sarmiorion, Keindostibaent, and Jaeglenhend. Try to save them—and his domain’s wealth—and make Niothramangh a target for the Alliance and every outlaw in the Uradabhur.

She was not certain what she herself would do in his place.

When the war is over, she told herself again and again, finding it within her mind even when she was thought she was brooding on other things. When the war is over …

But of course, when this war was over, another would be poised to begin.

“I say all we need to do is turn and attack them,” Atholfol Ivrithir said stubbornly, getting to his feet to lean across the table.

“That’s your answer to everything,” Thoromarth said. “It won’t necessarily work.”

“You’re blind as well as imbecile,” Atholfol snapped. “The vanguard of their army and the fantail of ours are barely five miles apart now. Let them close the distance further, and they’ll attack us in force.”

“They’ll try, certainly,” Rithdeliel said.

Vieliessar’s pavilion was so crowded there was no need to kindle the stove for warmth, and at that, only her most senior commanders were present. Each day, after combat practice, cavalry drill, and a meal, she gathered some of her commanders to her, doing her best in each sennight to meet with all the commanders in her army, from the War Princes who had pledged to her to the komen who commanded but a single taille of knights. But it was in the council of her senior commanders that the army’s decisions were made.

“They’ll manage,” Gunedwaen said to Rithdeliel. “Atholfol is right: let the distance between us narrow any further and the Alliance will attack in strength. But I’m not certain attacking them is the answer.”

“Why not?” Atholfol demanded irritably.

“Line meets line,” Gatriadde Mangiralas said. “They’ll attack in line because there’s less danger of riders being fouled if one of the destriers goes down on the ice. We respond in line for the same reason, and also to block a flanking maneuver. But either we commit twice their numbers—and we don’t have twice their numbers—or they get around the end of our line and reach the supply wagons.” Gatriadde had gained a great deal of self-assurance in the last several moonturns; he no longer looked to anyone for approval before he spoke.

“If I were in charge of the Alliance forces, I’d skip the fight and go straight for the supply train,” Nadalforo said. “That nearly finished us last time. They won’t make the mistake of keeping the wagons intact again.”

“We have Wards on the oxen,” Rithdeliel said.

“There are a dozen ways to destroy wagons without involving witchborn. Throw a torch into them. Shoot their drivers. Shoot the teams—or, if you want to start a stampede, throw acid on any of the ox teams. They’ll smash half the wagons to kindling before you can kill them,” Nadalforo said.

“They’d never,” Rithdeliel said. “Arilcarion said—”

“Oh, High House Warlord!” Nadalforo said, laughing. “Do you think it matters what some dead clerk wrote in a moldering scroll?”

Most of the komen looked shocked, but a few of those present, mostly the former mercenaries and the infantry captains, were smiling or trying to hold back laughter. Vieliessar would not laugh: she knew as well as any how hard it was to set aside the lessons of a lifetime. But there was one truth Arilcarion had not set down in his scrolls: The purpose of war is to win.

“I was the first to cast aside the Code of Battle,” she said. “It is true the Alliance has followed, but it does so without imagination. It merely does all Arilcarion forbade.”

“Like slaughtering helpless prisoners,” Komen Diorthiel said sourly. “At least it was not the komen who committed such an atrocity.”

“They are still dead,” Dirwan said sharply. He was the captain of the infantry, and his units had suffered the heaviest losses during the battles both in Jaeglenhend and in the West. Any who were captured had been tortured to death.

“The fact remains: komen expect to fight other komen,” Vieliessar said gently. “While you and all you lead understand that victory is not always sheathed in the scabbard of battle, the komen of the Alliance will resist performing the tasks of ‘mere servants who are not true warriors.’”

This time everyone joined in the laughter, as she meant them to. Even if the Alliance thought to destroy her wagons, she doubted they could persuade their komen to attack laborers and oxen instead of their fellow knights.

“Someone will figure out how to get it done sooner or later,” Nadalforo said. “We have been lucky thus far that no one there is truly in charge. If I were Runacarendalur of Caerthalien, I’d do whatever I must to gain sole permanent command of their army. I’m sure he’s thought of everything we have.”

So am I, Vieliessar thought grimly. Each day she survived was a new amazement to her—were their positions reversed, she would have drawn a blade across her own throat moonturns ago. But either her Bond with Prince Runacarendalur was not complete or the destiny that had surrounded her from the moment she set foot on this road protected her. I care not which is true, so long as one or the other is!

“We have a few days yet to decide how to face their attack when it comes,” Vieliessar said. “And to discover a way to widen the space between us. Iardalaith, find Lightborn to ride with the wagons, if you will. Lord Atholfol, it is a good thought to guard them so. But even if we turn aside any attacks, there is yet another matter we must settle. Soon enough we must turn south.”

She had become certain that she could not find the location of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor from within any of the domains. Thurion had said the search would require power, and the defense spells of the two great armies drained every Flower Forest within their range. But south of the Uradabhur domains were lands claimed by no House. She had charted every landmark her dream-visions had given her. The ghostlords had ridden north and west in pursuit of Pelashia’s children. So she must go south and east.

And surely there was a Flower Forest somewhere in that uncharted wilderness.

If there is not …

“You can’t take an army into the forest,” Thoromarth said simply. Beyond the Southern Pass Road lay forest dense enough to give cover to a sortie party. And forest that dense would be impassable to the supply wagons.

“We shall do so when the time comes,” Vieliessar said, with more confidence than she felt. “My lords, find me a way to either move us faster or slow the Alliance. And now I give you all good night.”

Her commanders—princes, Lords Komen, Lightborn, mercenaries, outlaws, and commonfolk—rose from the table or stepped away from the walls. Slowly the pavilion emptied. Almost before the last had gone, Drochondeur, Master of the Household, bustled in at the head of a small army of servants to prepare the outer chamber of her pavilion for night. Vieliessar retreated to her sleeping chamber to let them work. Little had been settled, but she hadn’t expected more. She had an idea of what she might do about the Alliance attacks. The rest must wait on inspiration.

And upon my belief that there is a Flower Forest south of the borders. Or I have led my army halfway across the world to die.

Vieliessar shifted in the saddle, pulling her heavy cloak more tightly around her. Her new destrier grumbled his displeasure, mumbling at the bit. He was a burly bay stallion with a vicious temper; after the third time he’d tried to bite her, she’d named him “Snapdragon,” since no one knew his name. She’d chosen him for his strength and stamina rather than his sweet temper—temperament had never yet gotten a knight through a battle alive.

The day was dark and the air was heavy and wet, smelling of snow. The Lightborn of both armies had lost the power to shift the weather long since. Inevitably, the day would come when they must either allow a blizzard to strike—or drain the Flower Forests of the domain to dust to move it.

But not today, Vieliessar thought. Not today.

“Ah. There. At last—I was getting bored,” Nadalforo said cheerfully.

Vieliessar looked behind her. Two grand-tailles of knights had moved out from the enemy vanguard.

“Inglethendragir,” she said, finally identifying the colors.

House Inglethendragir had risen from Less House to High at the end of the Long Peace. Its device was three silver wolves on a purple field—this acknowledged that its elevation had come by the erasure of Farcarinon. Randragir Inglethendragir had replaced the silver leaves of his previous device with Farcarinon’s silver wolves..

“There’s a surprise,” Nadalforo said. “I would have expected them to send one of the Less Houses. Perhaps no one likes Lord Randragir very much.”

“They’ll like him less a candlemark from now,” Vieliessar said, and Nadalforo laughed.

Nadalforo raised the signal whistle to her lips and blew a complicated pattern of notes. Vieliessar reined Snapdragon to a stop as the former mercenary companies detached themselves from the line of march and formed into two ranks facing the enemy. Inglethendragir’s grand-tailles broke away from the vanguard and began to move over the ice, spreading from column into line as they did. When they were in formation, they moved to a trot.

“Are you ready?” Vieliessar asked Terandamil.

“We are,” the Master of the Archers replied.

Inglethendragir advanced. Vieliessar’s force waited. The belling of her banner on the wind—the High King’s banner defiantly displayed—was the only movement. The attackers moved from trot to canter to gallop and still Vieliessar’s force waited.

“Now,” Terandamil said.

In one smooth movement, infantry stepped from behind the second rank of destriers and moved into the open spaces between the first rank. Once they had been favored servants of their domains, huntsmen and foresters. Each carried a forester’s bow. Terandamil had not honed their deadly skill, for that was a thing only years could do. But it was Terandamil who had told them they were warriors.

They loosed their arrows, and the shots came so close together that the release of the bowstrings was like a rippling chord of harpsong. Three heartbeats later another volley of arrows sang forth, and three heartbeats later, another. The music of the third volley was drowned out by agonized screaming. The ice had grown bright and slick with blood. At the ends of the enemy line a few wounded destriers thrashed.

Most of the rest were dead.

The enemy center was still intact. Some of the knights tried to rein in and turn back. Their mounts skidded and slipped—some fell, and over all the other sounds, in a freakish heartbeat of silence, there was the sound of a leg bone breaking, loud and sharp. Others galloped on, or tried to turn at the gallop, simply did their best to slow down.

Whatever they did, nothing saved them.

Terandamil’s rangers nocked and loosed, nocked and loosed, and the long, heavy arrows flew low over the ice in flights as regular and inexorable as the beats of a war drum. Behind the lines of mercenaries a line of palfreys waited, each with a rider already in its saddle. As the archers ran out of arrows, or when a string or bow snapped, that archer retreated. Each archer moved with calm precision, though the bitter cold numbed bare fingers and made bowstrings brittle. Each arrow struck its target: the destriers—and only the destriers. Warhorses were precious and nearly irreplaceable. The fewer warhorses the Alliance possessed, the fewer komen they could send against her. And when Terandamil’s archers were done, the Alliance had two grand-tailles less.

When all the destriers were dead or dying, the archers walked away, quietly, without display. It was as much a warning to their noble comrades as it was to their enemy.

The attack was over so swiftly the Alliance commanders had no time to ride to Inglethendragir’s aid—or summon their Lightborn to Shield them. A few single knights rode out from the Alliance column and loosed arrows, but the horseman’s bow had less range than the forester’s bow, so the shafts fell harmlessly to the ground. The destriers of Inglethendragir lay slewed across the blood-smeared ice. Some riders had been thrown, some had jumped clear as their mounts went down, some still lay trapped beneath the dead and dying animals. A few moved with daggers to end the lives of the still-suffering beasts.

“It would be funny if it weren’t so sad,” Nadalforo said quietly, watching. “Even if you lose, it’s the end of the komentai’a. Everyone now knows a meisne armed with forester’s bows can slaughter a troop of knights any time it chooses to. That won’t make them massacre their foresters. They’ll all scurry to find and train them. We’ll be facing them ourselves if this war goes on long enough.”

“It won’t,” Vieliessar said. It can’t.

“As I say, Lord Vieliessar, I hope you win,” Nadalforo said. She reined her destrier around and trotted after the army.