Crown of Vengeance

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE FALL OF THE HUNDRED HOUSES

It is said the High King gained her throne through seven great battles: Oronviel, Aralhathumindrion, Jaeglenhend, Niothramangh, Cirdeval, the Barrens, and the Shieldwall Plain. Oronviel was a Challenge Circle, Aralhathumindrion only a skirmish, and the Barrens was not a battle at all. But Storysingers shape history as cabinetmakers shape wood, and it is left for Loremasters to decide the truth.

—Thurion Lightbrother,

Vieliessar’s Tale

It was nearly dawn. The fortress the Warhunt’s Magery had made echoed with emptiness; its tents and pavilions, herds and flocks, wagons and all who would not take the field this day, were gone. The last of the wagons labored through the pass; the sound of hooves on stone, the creak and thump of wagons, was loud in the night silence.

For nearly a sennight, her folk had passed through Dargariel Dorankalaliel into the Vale of Celenthodiel. Reports had trickled back of a vast, lush, deserted domain ringed by mountains, of a deserted Great Keep atop a spire of rock, of Flower Forests too vast to map.

Vieliessar had not yet seen it. It would be hers—if she could win the day.

She had thought that claiming the Unicorn Throne would be enough to gain her the victory, and it would—but only if she could show her enemies what she held. The pass stretched for miles. The Alliance would not follow her through it—Arilcarion taught that such a tactic was suicide, and the Alliance Warlords would heed that ancient counsel.

And so she’d planned this battle, the words Princess Mieuroth of Gerchiliael had spoken moonturns ago echoing through her mind: My lords, we are not alone in this! There are many who would choose to join your cause—but how can it be, when each knows any they abandon will be cruelly punished?

Today those lords and those princes would have their chance. All they need do was throw down their swords and ride to her lines. Let enough of the Alliance army pledge to her, and the victory was hers.

The only way to get them to do that was to offer her enemy a show of battle.

Her commanders had tried to argue her out of taking the field in her own person, but she’d never considered agreeing. Perhaps there was wisdom in their words, but how could she ask her foot knights to stand against charging destriers, ask the Lightborn to believe she would never lead them to flout Mosirinde’s wisdom, if she did not trust in being Child of the Prophecy as her armor and shield?

She’d never had any other choice. She had never forgotten her vigil in the Shrine of the Star.

“You have come to end Us … for you are Farcarinon. Death in life. Life in death. You will be known when We are forgotten.” The Starry Huntsman had spoken, and within that vision had come another: a cold and darkling plain, a balefire burning star-pale with magic, a creature neither alfaljodthi nor Beastling standing tall and proud beside a komen in whose veins her own blood coursed. “The Land calls you. The People call you. I call you. He Who Is would return to the world, and so we summon you.”

“And will you spill your own blood to save the land?”

I will. The question had not been asked of her, but every day she had answered it. I will. I will.

“I will,” she whispered aloud.

“I still think you’re an idiot,” Thoromarth said quietly. “My liege.”

“Think what you like; it’s too late to change my mind,” she said. “Are you ready?” she called.

“We are, my lord,” Iardalaith answered.

“Then let us begin.”

There was a flare of brightness as the Warhunt cast Shield just within the fortress walls. The walls ran for a league in each direction. Twelve cubits high, three cubits thick.

The Warhunt turned them to water.

The spell that had made them was powerful. The one to unmake them was more powerful still. It seemed to Vieliessar that she could hear Janglanipaikharain cry out in protest, and she knew the Flower Forest did not have much more to give. For an instant, the dark stone stood solid. Then suddenly it was clear, a crystalline battlement glittering in the light of Shield.

Then it fell, water crashing and spreading across the gutted frozen surface of Ifjalasairaet, a great wave that rolled outward toward the enemy. It spread and slowed, until the whole expanse between Vieliessar’s army and the Alliance camp sparkled like a vast mirror.

“Drop the Shield,” she said, more calmly than she felt. “Sound the call to battle.”

Caerthalien held the enemy center. Both Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen thought a few of the War Princes would ride with their meisnes today, but not the Houses of the Old Alliance. So it was Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien who sat beneath Caerthalien’s war banner. Irony indeed if hers was the sword that killed him. Perhaps the power of Amrethion’s Prophecy would save her life when he fell.

The enemy line was twice the length of her own. The Alliance meant its komen to sweep around her, encircling her force and driving her tuathal and deosil wings over her archers and infantry. Her strategy required them to do the opposite—she needed to trap the whole of the Alliance force within her own, pulling them away from their reserve units. That was one reason among many she’d chosen to give up the momentary advantage of meeting them in the charge.

She took a deep breath as the signal to attack was sounded. Vieliessar felt the maddening itch of Light wash over her skin as the enemy Lightborn fought to strike at them and the Warhunt opposed them. It was as much a test of strength as anything else, for Janglanipaikharain was still a reservoir of Light, not Sealed to either side, and so superiority in the duel of Lightborn would come from tactics, not raw power. No commander can ride two horses at once, Rithdeliel had told her over and over when he moved from training her as a knight to training her as a general of armies to come. She banished the Lightborn from her mind. She must trust Iardalaith to do all she would do herself—and more.

The enemy moved forward at a walk for a few moments, opening out the lines of close-packed destriers. Then a second signal came; the enemy moved to the trot, and the ground began to shake with the hammer of steel-shod hooves. She counted heartbeats as the first ranks moved to the gallop, pulling those behind with them as fluidly as if they were pearls on the same strand.

Now that the Alliance komen were committed Vieliessar’s pikes and archers began to walk forward as unhesitatingly as if they did not walk into Death’s embrace. The archers began loosing arrows as soon as the enemy was in range, and horses and riders began to fall. The enemy line shifted, folded, re-formed into column. Then the flying column of Alliance komen struck her pikes. A full third of her infantry went down under the force of the impact.

She hated the thought of riding over her own wounded. She had no choice. She flourished her sword and urged Snapdragon forward. On her tuathal hand, Rithdeliel’s force spurred their mounts forward, the wolf-howl of Farcarinon bursting from every throat. The wild ululation made her hackles rise and she found herself echoing a war cry that had not been heard since the day Serenthon Farcarinon fell in battle.

Battle was joined.

Her sword seemed weightless in her hands. She feinted at a neck then struck at a shoulder.

“To make armor flexible, it must also be weak. Here are the places to strike an armored knight.”

The breastplate could not be easily pierced. Backplates were lighter and covered only the upper back, for the Code of Battle forbade an attack from behind. Belly was protected by thin bands of metal. The underside of the upper arm was protected only by chain. The inner elbow was unarmored. The arm from elbow to wrist was shielded by a light vambrace, the hand and fingers by a studded leather glove.

The destriers rarely wore armor.

An Aramenthiali warhorse reared to attack. Her sword bit deep into its throat. As it fell, its rider’s head went back. She struck at the exposed jaw. Blood gushed. Snapdragon spun away.

She shifted her weight in the saddle without thought—heel here, knee there, sit back, sit forward—and Snapdragon turned and whirled and lunged in a deadly dance, striking what she could not reach, adding his force to her blows, shielding her from danger.

“Your destrier is your most important weapon on the field. Learn what he can teach you, and teach him well.”

Caerthalien gold-and-green, Aramenthiali blue-and-gold, mixed with green-and-silver as the enemy column plunged deep into her line. Now the archers would retreat. Now the waiting wings would ride to flank. The events of the first moments of battle—what should be, for she could not see what was—ticked through her mind like the drops of water that had measured out her days in the Sanctuary of the Star. An enemy struck at her arm; she dropped her shoulder and the blade rang off her gorget and bounced away.

Turn and strike. Strike and live.

She had not ridden to battle with a standard-bearer beside her, but her green helm was banded in moonsilver, a coronet of Vilya blossoms inlaid into the lacquer. Symbol of rule, dominion, kingship. It drew the enemy to her as if she had bespelled them.

Nadalforo forced her mount forward on Vieliessar’s tuathal side, caught a descending blow on her bracer, then struck across her saddle in a spearing motion. Her blade slid between the plates of belly armor, thrusting the knight from his saddle. Her mount lunged forward. Vieliessar spurred Snapdragon through the sudden opening.

She had never seen, never fought, a battle as Arilcarion would have them fought—a thing of lines of retreat, negotiated abeyances, battlefields with unassailable bounds and safe places to rest an exhausted mount or change to a fresh one. The summer wars of the Hundred Houses were hedged about by a thousand rules. This was no summer war. It was a battle fought without quarter, without surrender. Any warrior who rode alone from the press of battle was hunted and slain like a deer in the spring.

The sun climbed higher in the sky. The field shifted as the ground became clogged with dead. Tailles and grand-tailles fought free of the carnage only to regroup and attack again. The screams of the wounded and dying blended with the hammering of sword on sword, sword on armor, the blurt of warhorns relaying unheeded signals, the skirl of signal whistles, a hundred shouted battle cries. Her body ached with the battering of sound, her flesh was numb beneath the shocks of a thousand blows. There were no landmarks here except for the cliff, and she could not raise her eyes from the battle to see if it was behind her, before her, to her left or right. There was only the enemy, and surcoats ripped away or stained with blood. She fought toward each half-glimpsed battle standard.

“To slay a battle captain is to slay twelve komen; a taille looks to its captain for direction.”

She did not see Caerthalien’s banners.

Her sword arm ached. Snapdragon’s neck was covered with foam. Riderless destriers plunged wildly through the melee seeking escape, or stood over their fallen riders until they too were slain. The moments of the battle unfolded in a thousand disjointed images. Here a warrior dragging an enemy from his destrier’s back and throwing himself into the vacant saddle as his own dying mount went to its knees. There—impossibly—one of her infantry still fighting, covered in blood, a blacksmith’s sledge in each hand. A Lightborn on a palfrey, armored only with a violet shimmer of Shield, her hands filled with hunting spears. A komen fighting afoot, standing in a ring of dead.

The air sizzled and crackled with Magery. She saw a string of sun-bright flashes and knew someone had Called Thunderbolt. She didn’t know which side or where it struck. Her mouth tasted of blood and metal. Her throat ached with thirst. The Alliance Lightborn lashed the frozen, hoof-churned, bloodstained plain with flame, raised winds to send grassfires toward her forces, called down the lightning. The Warhunt turned the wind, wrestled each Thunderbolt away from its intended target, summoned brief sharp blizzards to quench the fires. And with every spell cast and diverted Janglanipaikharain was drained further.

Through it all, komen fought komen with steel and steel-shod destrier. Grimly. Desperately. Soon they fought as often to capture a riderless destrier, for a moment in which they could stop to snatch precious mouthfuls of ice or clean snow for themselves and their animals, as for a victory. There were no charges of line against line any longer: Alliance komen and High King’s komen moved at a slow walk to take a new position, counting as precious the time it took for their opponent to gather their force and move to engage. They had been fighting since daybreak without rest, without water, and it was near to midday. The fighting had become a thing of slow and measured re-formations and brief vicious clashes.

Then the Alliance called for an abeyance.

Vieliessar heard the call in disbelief, but quickly passed the signal to honor it. It would give her force the chance to regroup and perhaps to retrieve some of her wounded. She still had most of a grand-taille with her, slowly forming up in a classic square. Barely a bowshot’s-length away, a group of the enemy were—equally slowly—retreating to their own lines. Across the field, she could see the Alliance War Princes watching. They’d begun the day with a mounted escort. The komen remained, but they’d given up their destriers to those on the field.

“I thought you’d like to know we’re winning.”

Gunedwaen rode up to her. One of his pauldrons had been sheared away; he’d lost his helmet and replaced it with a sellsword’s cervelière. He handed her a waterskin and she gulped its contents eagerly.

“Winning?” she asked, her voice a rusty croak. “What news?”

“The messengers say Celenthodiel is orderly. Your archers guard its entrance. Lord Annobeunna has placed arming pages along the length of the pass to assist the wounded who reach it. And the others.”

The tone of his words made her glance toward him. “Others?” she asked sharply.

“You said their komen would surrender if we helped them do so. You’re right. They are.”

“You can’t know that,” she said. She meant it for a question, but she was too tired. The words came out sounding like an accusation.

But Gunedwaen smiled. “I can. When I see a dozen swords lying on the ground with no bodies near them, I know it’s because their owners threw them down to surrender.”

You cannot imagine they follow the Code of Battle upon this battlefield! she thought indignantly.

Gunedwaen pointed and Vieliessar turned to look. Riding in the direction of the pass were eighteen knights. They were fresh and unfazed, their warhorses and their armor pristine and unsullied, and all wore blue and gold surcoats blazoned with the black horse of Aramenthiali. One even carried a standard with the Aramenthiali bannerette upon it and some personal pennion below.

Her komen should have turned to engage, but they didn’t. The Aramenthiali komen moved past them, behind them, toward Dargariel Dorankalaliel.

Their hands were empty.

And yet they do, she thought in disbelief. They disarm themselves upon a field where both armies fight without quarter, trusting in my honor. The honor of the High King.

“We’re going to win,” she said.

“If we don’t all die first,” Gunedwaen said cheerfully.

They’d all known this battle would be a costly one, for Vieliessar Farcarinon could bring to this honorless field of slaughter an array nearly equal to their own by forcing the komen of the High Houses to face criminals, mercenaries, Landbonds. She had already shattered Mosirinde’s Covenant and brought the Lightborn into battle. She’d rejected Arilcarion’s wisdom to fight without decency and without honor, forcing them to do the same. Bolecthindial watched the battle begin, saw the flower of Caerthalien—yes, and Aramenthiali as well—destroyed by Vieliessar’s archers and pike-wielders. But then he had seen komen clash with komen as was right and good, offering up their lives to the Lord of the Night Wind, He Who held the destiny of all the Hundred Houses in His hands, He Who gave the gift of eternity to those who died in His service. Bolecthindial had believed in victory then.

He believed until he saw komen wearing the colors of Teramarise, Vondaimieriel, Rolumienion, Jovadigalas—of every House of the West—throw down their swords and ride to join the enemy.

We should never have attacked simply because she offered battle. We ought to have known better. Should and would and ought—did not Lord Toncienor, Swordmaster to my mother, tell me “should” and “would” and “ought” were three great armies who always fought on the enemy side?

It had taken him most of the morning to get the rest of the War Princes to agree to call for abeyance. That Vieliessar had chosen to honor it did not make Bolecthindial feel any better.

“It is rather difficult to fight a battle if your army has deserted,” Edheleorn Telthorelandor drawled.

Fewer than half the War Princes of the Alliance array were gathered in the golden Council tent. Those who had ridden out this morning might now lie dead or wounded, their Houses in disarray, their Lines shattered. A disturbing number of others had simply refused to come.

Sedreret snarled at Telthorelandor’s choice of words. “My komen do not desert! The witchborn sow has bespelled them!”

Edheleorn raised an eyebrow at that, for all knew that Ladyholder-Abeyant Dormorothon was Lightborn, and waved the protest away with a languid hand. “It does not matter what words you use. The truth remains: they do not fight for us.”

“This is unacceptable!” Ferorthaniel Sarmiorion roared. “I name them traitors and cowards! Are you all so spineless and weak that no komen will follow you?”

“Fine words from Sarmiorion indeed! Where is the largesse your vassal domains should have bestowed upon us?” Sedreret Aramenthiali said. “Is Sarmiorion so spineless and weak that her vassals will not obey her?”

Ferorthaniel howled with outrage and sprang to his feet. Dormorothon rose fluidly from her seat beside her son, standing straight-backed and furious.

“This does not solve our problem,” Edheleorn said. His voice was quiet, but it stopped the War Princes more effectively than if he had deafened them with a shout.

“Perhaps—in your vast wisdom—you will now counsel us on how to keep our meisnes in the field?” Bolecthindial said heavily. It was only by the grace of Aradhwain and Manafaeren that Runacarendalur’s name was not numbered among the catalogue of the missing and the dead. He had stormed from the field at the head of a ragged handful of komen, too furious at the abeyance to even acknowledge Bolecthindial’s presence as he rode past him.

“Perhaps we should not,” Edheleorn answered.

“I offer Telthorelandor my condolences on his sudden impairment,” Girelrian Cirandeiron said. “It must be dreadful to face a life of darkness after being renowned so long for your clear sight—or am I mistaken? Perhaps you actually are aware of the pass through the cliff after all?”

“You cannot insult me, Girelrian,” Edheleorn said. “One can only be insulted by one’s equals. Abandon your foolishness and state your point.”

“It should be obvious even to you, dear Edheleorn. Farcarinon retreats through the pass her Lightborn have made. Already her supply train has preceded her, for it is nowhere to be seen. Let this day come to an inconclusive close, let her follow her army, and how many of our people will join them?”

“If they try—and we stop them—we diminish our army by our own actions. If we fight on with those of true and proven loyalty, we shall have no choice but to do battle by sending our army into Lord Vieliessar’s pass.” Edheleorn spread his hands wide. “We might as well cut their throats ourselves.”

The blade trembled in the air. Mage-forged and spellbound, sharp as winter’s first frost, it had been his father’s first gift to him. His hands shook. Every muscle strained.

He could not force it against his throat.

With a cry of despair, Runacarendalur dropped the weapon to the carpet and flung himself into a chair. The pavilion was empty. There was no one here to bring him a cup of hot wine, help him off with his filthy and blood-clotted armor, or draw a bath.

Our arming pages and squires joined us on the field. If our servants have not fled outright, they hide, awaiting the outcome of the day.

And all he could see when he closed his eyes was a moonsilver crown of Vilya against a green helm. “Beloved,” Runacarendalur snarled in rage.

“Do you say so, dear brother? Rejoice. You may join her at last.”

Ivrulion shimmered into existence, a thin cloak of grey fabric pooling at his feet. Its surface shifted as if it were made of smoke, and Ivrulion’s hands vanished into its folds.

“Monster!” Runacarendalur screamed. He flung himself at his brother’s throat, only to crash to the carpet, trembling, as every muscle betrayed him.

“Such drama,” Ivrulion said coolly. “When I am here to grant you what every noble scion of the Hundred Houses should value more than life. Victory.”

“It isn’t me you want to be talking to, then,” Runacarendalur growled through gritted teeth.

“No,” Ivrulion agreed. “But I think you should be present, all the same.”

“What treachery is this?” Mindingener Jovadigalas demanded as Ivrulion and Runacarendalur entered the Council tent. The guards who should have stopped them stood frozen. Bespelled. “Do you seek to set yourself above us all, Bolecthindial?”

“My father is as witlessly conventional as the rest of you,” Ivrulion said, sounding bored. “He would never presume to set himself above you without first placing a sword at your throats. No. I have come to see whether you wish to win—or to become Farcarinon’s lapdogs.”

“To win, of course,” Sedreret Aramenthiali said. He strove for a patronizing tone and failed. “I wonder why you did not come forward earlier, if you hold the secret of victory.”

“Because he—” Runacarendalur struggled to speak the truth—Vieliessar, the Bonding, Ivrulion’s betrayal—and found himself forced once more to silence.

“Because my aid comes at a price,” Ivrulion said, ignoring him. “You would not have been willing to pay it while you could see any other path to victory.”

“If you have come to mock this council, remember you have sworn your fealty oath to me,” Bolecthindial said. The half-threat was a thing of reflex; if Runacarendalur was Bolecthindial’s son in thought and action, Ivrulion was Glorthiachiel’s. Glorthiachiel had always thought about what might be before facing what was; her clever mind had brought Bolecthindial and Caerthalien many victories, but she had also guarded against dangers that had never come to be.

“I did so swear,” Ivrulion agreed smoothly. “Now you must choose: hold me to those oaths and covenants—or claim the victory.” He smiled coldly. “You cannot force me to give you what you seek.”

“Oh, stop your posturing, Lightbrother,” Girelrian Cirandeiron said crushingly. “Tell us your plan and name your price. We shall enjoy the joke, I promise you. Then you may leave, and we shall return to matters no mere Lightborn can comprehend.”

“How is it that you have held my father’s respect these many years?” Ivrulion asked, as if he truly wanted to know. “Lord Bolecthindial is not known for idiocy.”

“I thank you for that, Ivrulion,” Bolecthindial said, speaking before Lord Girelrian could respond. “Speak. If you can give us the victory, you will not find me ungenerous.”

Ivrulion met Bolecthindial’s gaze for just a moment, and Bolecthindial felt a pang of unease. Ivrulion’s eyes were cold, and it had been many years since Bolecthindial had seen such hatred displayed so openly. “I will give you the victory, and you will make me your heir. I will be War Prince of Caerthalien upon your death. My children will become my heirs in turn. Ronadaniel will become Heir-Princess Ronadaniel. Huthiel will become Prince Huthiel.”

“Ridiculous—and impossible!” Chardararg Lalmilgethior said.

“And what of Prince Runacarendalur?” Runacarendalur said savagely, for these were words he could speak.

“Prince Runacarendalur will not survive the day.” To hear the words said so openly, so coldly, was enough to silence even the War Council. “My request is neither ridiculous nor impossible—if you all agree to it,” Ivrulion added. “If I fight on the field, why should I be barred from rule? Either way, my lords, choose. I cannot give you victory if you have already lost.”

“No,” Bolecthindial said flatly. “You dare speak of mur—”

“And Aramenthiali says yes,” Sedreret replied. “Must we vote upon this as if we are commoners?”

“I do not vote,” Lord Edheleorn said crushingly. “But before I agree to set Prince Runacarendalur aside—he yet lives, my dear Ivrulion—and accept a Lightborn as Caerthalien’s future War Prince, I wish to know how you mean to accomplish what all our meisnes together have not.”

“And I do not!” Bolecthindial roared, overturning his chair as he rounded on Ivrulion. “Shall I listen to you plot the death of my heir and say nothing? I—”

“I plot nothing,” Ivrulion said. “I speak only truth. Prince Runacarendalur will not survive this day. Nor will his death come at my hand.”

This was his intent all along. From the moment Ivrulion had compelled him to break into the War Council, Runacarendalur had felt nothing but horror. Ivrulion had planned this from the moment he had learned of the Soulbond. He’d seen a chance to gain Caerthalien for himself—not as Ternas of Celebros had done, through regency, but as War Prince in fact.

No matter the cost.

Bolecthindial turned to him, silently demanding answers. And all Runacarendalur could do was cover his face with his hand and turn away.

“Meet my price, and I shall give you an army that will not desert and will not retreat, Lord Edheleorn,” Ivrulion said calmly. “It will slay Vieliessar Farcarinon and every soul who has sworn fealty to her. You will have the victory. And undoubtedly you will hope for Lord Bolecthindial to enjoy many long and happy years.”

“How do we know you will not take this army and make yourself High King?” Lord Sedreret demanded.

“It is your army, my lords, not mine. I do not want the High Kingship. All I want is my birthright. Caerthalien.”

Suddenly, sharp in Runacarendalur’s memory, was a Midwinter Feast he had never seen, but of which he had been told many times. Ivrulion had stood, had spoken the words that had led them to this day.

“Test me, Astorion,” Ivrulion had said, laughing. “I leaped the fire this springtide—you must Call the Light in me as well!”

Would any of the rest have happened—Nataranweiya’s marriage, Serenthon’s plan, Farcarinon’s erasure, Vieliessar and her tangled path to rule—if Ivrulion had never gone to the Sanctuary of the Star?

“It does not matter, Father,” Runacarendalur said softly, putting a hand on his father’s arm. “Come. I must prepare to ride out once more.”

“You have no need to flee, Caerthalien,” Lord Girelrian said. “I believe we are all agreed. Prince Ivrulion will be acknowledged by all of us as Heir-Prince—if he gives us the victory.”

With such a majority, the rest of the War Princes would have no choice but to agree as well.

Even Caerthalien.

“Then swear it, and I shall begin,” Ivrulion said.

Bolecthindial turned away in silence and walked from the tent, Runacarendalur beside him.

He paid little attention to Runacarendalur as he walked toward the Caerthalien precinct. No War Prince could ever love the rivals who might at any moment destroy lands, family, children—every hostage to the future Time had scattered in their paths like poisoned sweets. But Bolecthindial Caerthalien had long ago learned that hate was a toy for children. The War Princes were beyond both love and hate … at least the ones who survived.

Twice in a lifetime is twice too many to look upon my fellow princes and call them “ally.” Of all my peers and rivals, the one I came close to calling “friend” was Serenthon Farcarinon, and yet I betrayed him without a thought. I lost no sleep over it.

But even as he’d marshaled their allies to betray Serenthon, Bolecthindial had never hated him as in the last several moonturns he had come to loathe his fellow War Princes. And now they had forced upon him the ultimate insult. But there is time yet to set that right. Let Ivrulion gloat over Caerthalien while he may. If only one of my sons is to survive this day, it will not be him.

Bolecthindial had been fond of all his children. Vieliessar had taken most of them. He would trade the life of one of the survivors for the life of the other—for Caerthalien.

It had all—always—been for Caerthalien.

As they reached the door of the pavilion, Bolecthindial heard the horns echoing through the camp, signaling the end of the abeyance. He turned to Runacarendalur.

“There is one last duty I must ask of you, as liege if not as father.”

“Father, do not think—I swear to you, what he has done does not—”

“Nor will it,” Bolecthindial said. “And so I charge you—survive this day. Do not rashly seek your death. What is made can be unmade. You will know that when you are War Prince.”

For a moment it seemed Runacarendalur would refuse him. Then he grasped Bolecthindial’s gloved and jeweled hand in his bloody gauntlets, and raised it to his lips.

“I swear to you, there is no other prince among the Hundred Houses I would ever have followed as gladly as I have always followed you, Father,” he said.

Their breath smoked on the chill air as they walked out onto the deserted battlefield. The air swirled with power, low and hot and forbidden, for it was the power spilled forth by the dead along with their blood. To Lightborn senses, it hung over the battlefield like a dark fog. The Sanctuary taught Mosirinde’s Covenant even before it taught Magery: do this, do not do that. Years ago, Ivrulion had realized those proscriptions were the marker stones leading to power unfettered by the shackles of convention, power undreamed-of.

“I do not understand what we’re doing, Father,” Huthiel said.

“We are gaining victory for Caerthalien and the Twelve,” Ivrulion answered.

“If I am to help Caerthalien to victory I must do it by the sword, and yet you refused to let me fight today—it was humiliating to see my komen led out onto the field by Uncle Rune!” Huthiel protested. “They must all think me a coward.”

“Soon they will not,” Ivrulion said, stopping. “If you had been a prince, as you were meant to be, you would have learned that it is the duty of the elder to sacrifice themselves so that the younger may flourish and rule, for only in that way can the House itself flourish and command.”

“I was raised among princes,” Huthiel said stiffly. “But—”

“Know that you are truly a prince of Caerthalien, Huthiel,” Ivrulion said. He drew his son close and kissed him upon the forehead. “Now I will teach you there are more paths to victory than can be gained by the sword.”

He stepped away from Huthiel and closed his eyes. The blood-drenched earth had frozen; it was black and glittering, like dark glass. He raised his arms, feeling a thrill bordering on ecstasy as he swept up that forbidden power and began to shape it.

Rise.

Janglanipaikharain had been drained of nearly all it could safely give. Now Ivrulion took the rest. Hundreds of miles to the west, the ever-living trees became a ghost forest. Fruit and flower and leaf, dead and withered, fell from lifeless branches, moss and vine turned brown and crisped away into dust. The soil in which Janglanipaikharain had once bloomed and flourished became lifeless sand.

Rise!

The power swept across the battlefield, shaped by Ivrulion’s will and resonating to his desire. All around him, lifeless flesh stirred to answer the call.

RISE!

For a moment the bespelling trembled on the knife edge of failure. Then Ivrulion turned swiftly and drew the knife he’d held concealed in his hand swiftly across Huthiel’s—Prince Huthiel’s—throat. Huthiel’s body fell to the ground. Wisps of steam rose from the fresh-spilled blood. The dead face still wore an expression of surprise.

Let this sacrifice seal the spell.

The power of Huthiel’s death coursed through Ivrulion’s veins like fire and wine, the gateway to power even he had only dimly imagined. Now he could feel the living heartbeat of the world—and with all his mind and will, Ivrulion plunged the dagger of his spell into it. Life and death were one. Ivrulion threw back his head and howled his triumph.

I name this place Ishtilaikh! Ruin!

Then the power crested like a great wave and rolled back toward him, feeding on death as it came. Ivrulion screamed as he saw the danger, but it was too late. Power filled him, transformed him, enflamed him with a ravenous hunger that must be fed on death—a hunger that could never be satisfied, never be slaked. The ice beneath his feet became fog. The grass became dust. The soil became lifeless sand. Ivrulion was no longer alfaljodthi, Trueborn, Pelashia’s Child. He was Darkness. He was Hunger. He was Death.

And the dead answered his call. Huthiel stirred, rose, then staggered across the battlefield to where a sword lay abandoned and clutched its hilt in still-cooling fingers. Destriers lunged to their feet, dragged themselves inexorably from pitfalls. For mile upon mile across the sprawling battlefield, dead flesh, blank-eyed and shambling, rose and began to move southward toward the pass, driven and animated by the will of that which had once been Ivrulion of Caerthalien.

The Alliance warhorns sounded, signaling the end of the abeyance. Vieliessar felt a pang of relief. By now the Alliance must have realized that its komen were deserting. That was why they’d called for the abeyance; many of those who would have ridden to her under cover of battle would not do so openly. She had been afraid the War Princes would refuse to continue to fight.

Silver Hooves grant I may demand their surrender when night falls!

She could not say whether she hoped for or dreaded the possibility that Runacarendalur might be among those to concede. If he lived …

Fool! Even if you gain the victory, you can never acknowledge he is your destined Bondmate! He is Caerthalien, greatest of the Hundred Houses—all would see your words of peace and justice to be a sham if you did!

“My lord! Do you see—” Rithdeliel began.

Vieliessar never heard the end of Rithdeliel Warlord’s question, for suddenly a wave of foulness poured through her Shields as if they didn’t exist. She dropped her sword and clawed at her armor as bile rose in her throat. Each breath she drew seared throat and lungs. She felt her flesh rot and liquefy. Her ears were filled with gibbering, with the chittering laughter of things that could not exist.

This is not real! This is not real!

Her Shields had saved her life a thousand times in the Sanctuary of the Star. They could not protect her now. She clawed at her helm, trying to shut out the terrible unreal sounds. Shouts of alarm, screams of terror, were transformed into prophecies of destruction, abomination, loss.

If I could open my eyes—oh Blessed Pelashia, let me open my eyes! she cried silently. But the darkness invaded her with every breath she took. With all the strength she possessed, Vieliessar tried to claw her way free—back to light, to life, to sanity.

And failed.

“What’s he doing?” Sedreret Aramenthiali demanded. His voice was a conspiratorial whisper despite the fact that Ivrulion and Huthiel were much too distant to hear him.

“A Great Spell,” Ladyholder-Abeyant Dormorothon said. Her tone, arch and patronizing, managed to imply that Ivrulion had consulted her for advice and now acted at her direction.

The War Princes were gathered near the place they had stood all day to watch the course of the battle. It had fallen by lot to Bolecthindial to give the signal for the charge—a twisted acknowledgment of their bargain—but when he had seen Ivrulion on the field, he hesitated. I am tired. I think too much, Bolecthindial told himself. He wanted to be home, on his own lands, dealing with matters he understood.

The wind began to rise. In the distance, Bolecthindial saw Huthiel fall to his knees. He turned to give an order—Caerthalien to the field, to strike Ivrulion down—when Dormorothon screamed and flung herself from the padded bench where she’d been sitting.

Sedreret was shouting, demanding Healers and servants to attend his mother. Bolecthindial ignored him, his attention fixed on Ivrulion. The army was disordered, confused, its elements jostling one another as this meisne sought to move forward, that to stand.

And on the battlefield, there was movement where there had been stillness.

“Oh, that fool,” Edheleorn Cirandeiron said in a flat stunned voice.

It is you who are the fools, Bolecthindial thought numbly. You did not ask Ivrulion how this miraculous victory he promised was to be achieved.

“Mazhnune,” Consort-Prince Irindandirion said, sounding awed and delighted. “He has raised up an army of mazhnune to fight for us.”

All across the field, dead things staggered to their feet. Bolecthindial saw Vieliessar’s army dissolve into chaos as every animal in it fought to escape. “Sound the retreat,” Bolecthindial said.

His knight-herald shook out the pennion banner and raised the warhorn. But before he could signal, Irindandirion snatched the warhorn from his hands and put it to his own lips.

Charge. Charge at the ravaal.

Before the notes had died, the first ranks spurred their destriers forward. The terrified, overexcited animals went from trot, to gallop, to ravaal in heartbeats, pulling the rest of the army after them. As they neared Ivrulion, the destriers began to veer sharply to avoid him, moving directly into the riders beside them. Horses and riders fell in a widening wave. Ivrulion stood transfixed, arms spread wide, in the center of a churning column of dust.

The sky above him was turning black.

Bolecthindial spurred his mount forward. If it had been his Kerothay, Bolecthindial could have ridden him into the Star-Forge itself, but Kerothay was dead. This mare shied violently before he had closed half the distance to Ivrulion, and Bolecthindial had to fight her to a stand before he could dismount. When he released the reins, she bolted. Bolecthindial drew his sword.

One moment he was running forward, his sword raised. The next, the hilt was forge-hot in his hands and every piece of metal he wore was a live coal burning through leather and cloth and skin. He roared with pain as he fell to hands and knees.

He sucked air and coughed, gagging on the dust. The grass is gone, he thought in vague surprise. All that remained was a pale, soft dust, so fine-grained it was slick as oil. He coughed again and blood spattered the backs of his gauntlets. He would not admit fear, but the sight of his own blood galvanized him, and he clawed his way to his feet. He took a step, slipping and staggering as if buffeted by stormwinds. Pain made him gasp and shudder and fall again. Ivrulion seemed farther away than before. The rings on Bolecthindial’s fingers had charred through the gloves beneath them, the jeweled clip in his hair had burned through it.

I cannot die before I make right what all of us set wrong out of fear and greed and ambition, Bolecthindial thought vaguely. Those were the tools all of them had used against others all their lives. Double-edged tools, like the swords they gave their sons and daughters while they were still children, before sending them off to war. We should not be surprised our children become sharpened blades as well.…

Blisters welled up on his skin, and broke, and bled. He gasped for air, but there was nothing but soft dust, stifling him, strangling him. He made one last attempt to get to his feet. But what rose and walked long moments later was no longer Bolecthindial Caerthalien.

“Fall back!” Rithdeliel shouted, hoping he could be heard. Horses screamed as they were pulled down by mazhnune wearing komen plate or sellsword chain or the leather of infantry. Strike off head or limbs, and what remained kept fighting. Worst were the mazhnune destriers, who trailed their spilled guts across the ice or galloped with broken necks flopping limply. The living destriers feared them more than they feared the mazhnune alfaljodthi.

The first ranks of the komen were fighting on foot now—even if there had been enough horses, they were impossible to control close to the mazhnune. When the mazhnune began attacking, they’d scavenged whatever infantry weapons they could find to arm themselves—you couldn’t kill something that was already dead, but at least you could hold it in place while your comrades chopped it into enough pieces that it stopped moving. The Lightborn were the easiest, for they’d worn little or no armor. The horses and dogs were hardest—the dogs were small and fast, and while the horses could be stopped by striking off their legs, it was nearly impossible to do that without suffering losses. We can’t afford losses, Rithdeliel thought bleakly. Every living thing that dies on Ifjalasairaet rises again as an enemy.

The komen knelt, one knee raised, each holding a pike or a spear. They might have been waiting to receive the charge of a maddened boar, a bear, a stag—winter was a time for hunting, just as summer was a time for war. Or had been. The seasons had all run together. It was winter, and they stood on a battlefield … being hunted. Rithdeliel watched bleakly as the lines of defenders shattered instead of retreating. Only about a third of them were retreating to regroup. The rest had become monsters.

“Rithdeliel! Hurry!” Gatriadde shouted, staggering as he ran past him. Rithdeliel turned and followed. Gatriadde had anchored the tuathal center of the outer defense. He couldn’t remember now who’d been on the deosil edge. Thoromarth? Atholfol? It didn’t matter. Whoever had been there had let some thing approach too closely, thinking it was still alive.

Thinking it was some comrade.

He reached the next line of defenders. On the battlefield things burned, adding smoke to the dust that filled the air. Desperate for light, the komen had set fire to everything that would burn. The burning wreckage gave barely enough light to show the mazhnune walking slowly and with terrible patience toward the defenders. Perhaps it was a mercy that it was too dark to let Rithdeliel easily distinguish the surcoats they wore. Soon enough the deathless enemy would reach their lines, and they would fight, and lose, and retreat again. They were dying by fingerswidths. Half the Alliance was fighting at their side now, and half the High King’s army had become mazhnune.

The sounds of battle were strangely distorted, for only the living cried out. Somewhere in the darkness Rithdeliel could hear the high frantic yelping of a terrified dog; he felt shame at wanting it to go on suffering so the mazhnune would not gain another warrior.

Somewhere behind him, Rithdeliel heard komen shouting wildly. For a panicked moment he thought the mazhnune had broken through. Then he heard hoofbeats and saw a destrier charge across the battlefield at the gallop. Another of the defenders, heart and spirit broken, had been driven mad by the bright torches of the Alliance encampment. The sight of it mocked the defenders with the promise of warmth and light and safety: the mazhnune were not attacking them. Yet, Rithdeliel thought grimly, but for once thoughts of vengeance did not comfort him.

The deserter managed to force his mount through the first line of mazhnune before it threw him. He got to his feet and ran on toward the travesty of sanctuary. Rithdeliel had seen what came next too many times tonight; he pulled his gaze away from the running figure. The horse was galloping wildly around the battlefield, seeking escape but shying away from the clusters of mazhnune. Eventually it would exhaust itself or fall into one of the traps and break a leg, but in the end, the outcome would be the same. Nothing left Ifjalasairaet alive.

The lone komen was pulled down and the screaming began. For an instant, Rithdeliel permitted himself to close his eyes. Every bone and muscle ached. He had no idea how long he’d been fighting.

War was like xaique: a master player chose the desired outcome before the game began. On this xaique board there were no good choices left. Vieliessar could seal herself, the commons, and a few thousand of the komen into the Vale of Celenthodiel and lose her bid for the Unicorn Throne. She could stand and fight—and die.

There was no third choice. They’d tried over and over to kill Ivrulion. Spells didn’t touch him and no warriors could get close. Rithdeliel had even called up one of the rangers to try the forester’s bow: Terandamil Master Ranger himself had come. Three tailles of dismounted knights had accompanied Terandamil to keep him alive until he was within range of his target.

Terandamil had loosed a dozen arrows. All had been whipped away by the wind. Terandamil and all but six of the komen who had stood with him were now mazhnune, and Rithdeliel knew it was useless to keep trying. Every failure armed the enemy further.

In the last moments before the new assault, Rithdeliel walked up and down the line, offering quiet words of encouragement and issuing final orders. He made it to the far end of the line without seeing Thoromarth, but Thoromarth might have taken an element of the line and moved forward. When the mazhnune concentrated on the center, the flanks did all they could to regain ground; when the flanks were attacked, the center moved up. They fought endlessly over the same few yards of ground, but the alternative was to lose.

The mazhnune were close enough now that faces, surcoats, and armor could be identified. There were groans and muffled curses all along the line as warriors recognized their dead comrades among the ranks of the enemy. Rithdeliel recognized more than one of the attackers, but his rage and despair were too deep for speech.

Thoromarth of Oronviel advanced toward Rithdeliel’s position. He wore no helm. The broken shaft of a spear protruded from between the bands of his faulds. The hilt of a dagger glinted in his eye socket.

Rithdeliel tightened his grip on his swordhilt and prepared to fight on.

Vieliessar did not know how long it was before the world righted itself again. She forced herself to open her eyes. Better to know the worst at once. She was almost surprised she could see.

“Praise Sword and Star—I thought we had lost you,” Aradreleg said in a shaken voice.

“Not yet.” Vieliessar blinked at the fabric blocking her sight of the sky. An unfamiliar pavilion. “Where…?” she croaked. Her tongue felt thick and her mouth tasted foul.

“We did not wish to place you in one of the Healing Tents, lest the people worry. This tent is mine.”

“I am in Celephrandullias-Tildorangelor,” Vieliessar said, and Aradreleg nodded.

“I had been seeing to the wounded who came through the pass, making a tally of the Alliance komen who surrendered, so we might know if any were of sufficient rank that they must swear to you. Then the sky…” Aradreleg swallowed hard. “The sky went black. A candlemark later, Lord Rithdeliel brought you. He said to keep you here, then went back to the fighting.”

“Rithdeliel must ever believe himself to be my nurse,” Vieliessar said dryly. “Where is my armor?” she asked, for she had been uncased as she lay insensible.

“I—Lord Rithdeliel said…” Aradreleg said desperately. Her thoughts swirled, making them difficult to read.

“Send someone for it. And I will need a destrier,” Vieliessar said. “And find someone who can tell me what’s going on out there.”

It was Atholfol of Ivrithir who came, with Dinias Lightbrother beside him. Dinias was hollow-eyed and pale, so weak Atholfol gave him support as he walked, though Atholfol was missing his sword arm from the elbow downward.

“Sit quietly, my lord,” Atholfol said as he entered. “For the news is bad and you must hear all of it.” He gestured with the bandaged stump. “I am grateful to see you alive, my lord. They say I can be made whole again, but that I will sleep for a sennight afterward. I say this is no time for sleeping.” Aradreleg’s tent was but a single chamber. Atholfol lowered Dinias to the chamber’s only stool and passed Vieliessar a flask. The tea it held was cold and sour, but no chilled cider had ever tasted so sweet.

“I will show myself once I have heard your report,” she said. “Then I must return to the fight.”

“You must not,” Dinias blurted out. “And I don’t think you can. None of us can—Lightborn, I mean. Those of us who were on the field…”

“Screamed as if poisoned,” Atholfol said, “and fell insensible to the ground when they stopped. I had just put Dinias over my destrier’s saddle when I took this hurt. And yet I account myself fortunate.”

Vieliessar waited in silence, for Atholfol’s telling of his tale would shape his thoughts to make them more easily read. When he had finished, she regretted her Gift of True Speech, for it had showed her more than he wished her to know. Two candlemarks ago Atholfol had been on the field, watching the Alliance array gather as the abeyance ended. Dinias had ridden to his side with fresh orders, for much of the Warhunt was acting as messengers. Atholfol’s meisne was ordered up the field to support Thoromarth’s force. He had given the order for them to regroup and form column when he saw two men—one of them Lightborn—walk out from the Alliance lines.

“I did not mark them, beyond calling them fools, for any cloudwit could see the Alliance was preparing to take the field. Then the bane-storm came, turning day to night, and Dinias fell. I think many—all the Lightborn—were struck down in that moment. I rode to him and slung him over Penstan’s saddle…”

And one of the dead lying nearby rose to its feet to strike at him.

“The horses went mad,” Atholfol said grimly. “Dead were rising up everywhere. I grabbed Penstan’s stirrup. He dragged me from the field. I ordered retreat. I do not know if anyone heard me.”

“I came to myself in the pass,” Dinias said, taking up the telling of what had happened. “I stopped Lord Atholfol’s bleeding. Dargariel Dorankalaliel was filled with retreating komen. We had no choice but to go all the way to Celenthodiel. After the first wave, they started bringing in the Warhunt. Those they could reach. Everyone wasn’t affected equally. It seemed like the stronger you were in the mind magics, the worse it was. But I went back as soon as I could.” He shuddered, and swallowed hard. “My Keystone Gift is Transmutation. Some Lightborn talk to horses. I talk to rocks. Even so … it was bad. One step past the border stones and you feel that all over again. No one’s made it even ten paces past the border stones before being overcome. I tried. Isilla too. I can’t even sense Janglanipaikharain anymore. Tildorangelor is still safe—for now,” he said, wiping his eyes dry with his fingers. “We are helpless.”

“Mazhnune,” Vieliessar said. The misplaced dead. It was something from a nursery tale: Heir-Princess Berendriel of House Notariel fell in battle, and when the Starry Hunt came for her, she refused to go with them. And so Berendriel of Notariel became mazhnune, unable to live again or to truly die.

“A counterspell—there must be something—” Vieliessar said.

“It doesn’t matter what we try—Dispell, Rot, Storm, Thunderbolt, Overshadowing, Fire—nothing happens. They walk through Shield as if it is not there. Whatever the spell is that has raised the mazhnune, it devours all magic. Isilla said we were only feeding it on Tildorangelor’s power.…”

And without Magery to stop them, only her army lay between the mazhnune and the pass. If they broke through that cordon, they would carry the spell of their raising with them, and so destroy the protection of the boundary stones. They would consume Tildorangelor as they’d devoured Janglanipaikharain.

“How far can you retreat from the entrance to the pass?” Vieliessar asked.

“We have not yet had time to map the vale,” Aradreleg said. “Many miles.”

“That much is good,” Vieliessar said. She forced herself to stand, to walk to the door of the tent. The sky above was dark, black clouds glowing green with sullen flares of lightning.

“Bring my armor,” she said. “And a horse.”

The destrier they brought for her was a stallion whose coat was the pale silver of a swordblade. The ostler who brought him said his name was Winter. She swung herself into his saddle and looked around.

Her people had set up the encampment about a mile from the entrance to the pass. A cloud of Silverlight hung over it, bringing its tents and people into sharp focus. The once open space at the mouth of the pass was clogged with komen and destriers—even at this distance, she could see that most of them wore the livery of Alliance Houses.

“Dinias, seek your bed; you have done well this night. Lord Atholfol, if you are the most senior of my commanders, I must ask more service of you this night. Aradreleg, find me those whom I may use to carry messages through the camp.”

She set Winter off at a slow walk, wondering if she presided over her own defeat or if victory was still possible. From the moment she’d realized what path was laid out for her by The Song of Amrethion, she’d told herself this war was the only way, even while she’d wondered if there was another. Each death suffered in her name made her more determined to avert the next: having begun by believing the war yet to come must be fought by all the Hundred Houses together, she’d still desperately yearned to fight as a lone champion so no others must die. It was a deadly flaw in a General of Armies, a worse one in a High King. If she did not apportion both responsibility and danger to all her subjects, she would leave them unable to act save at her order. Helpless.

And so, even though every fiber of her being urged her to spur him through the pass, to take the field, she knew she must show her people she yet lived. They gathered around her, making Winter fret and sidle, reaching out to touch her, to reassure themselves.

“Vielle!” Thurion pushed through the mob of people. “You live!”

“As do you,” she said on a wave of relief. “Walk with me.”

With Thurion at her stirrup, it seemed the people did not press as close. She ordered the flocks and herds moved south, away from the encampment, the palfreys and destriers unsaddled and turned loose, the mounts of the enemy komen who had given their parole unsaddled and freed as well. The baggage train she had sent through the pass this morning—still intact—would go south until a messenger reached it to tell it to halt.

None of those she asked after—Gunedwaen, Thoromarth, Rithdeliel—could be found. Save for Atholfol, her War Princes were all on the field—or dead. The encampment was a scattered thing of households and families with no clear master. In desperation, she placed Lord Atholfol in charge of it, and gave him orders to move everything he safely could southward, away from the entrance to the pass.

“And you, my lord? Where will you be?” Atholfol asked.

“Where I must be,” Vieliessar said.

She turned Winter’s head toward Dargariel Dorankalaliel. It was empty now; she did not know whether that was a good sign, or bad.

Thurion caught up with her soon after she had entered it, seated on some destrier he had snatched from its master. They rode in silence. There was nothing to say.

She did not summon Silverlight to guide her through the darkness, for it would mark the entrance for the enemy. Silversight showed her the carven walls as sharp as if by day. But beyond the entrance of the Dargariel Dorankalaliel, everything on the plain was darkness and shadows. She could see her army forming a barrier between the entrance to the pass and what lay beyond it. Those she could see were only the last line of defense; from the sounds, the fighting in the front ranks was heavy.

Vieliessar dismounted, walked forward until she stood just inside the boundary stones. The field was dark, lit only by the eldritch glow of the clouds and the flare of lightning. The clouds above shone with the black-green of a long-dead corpse. They swirled around a disk of unclouded sky, and within it the stars burned blood-red. Jagged violet lightning sketched across the clouds and swirled around the window to the stars. Lightning struck the ground all around the figure who stood in the center of a circle of lifeless dust that swirled as the clouds above swirled, a desert that grew larger with every moment, and though the wind raged across the plain, it did not touch him.

“How in the name of Sword and Star did we come to this day?” she said softly.

“There stands Ivrulion of Caerthalien,” Thurion said, pointing toward the distant column of dust and lightnings. “Ask him.”

Vieliessar drew a shaky breath. She’d feared the Light, hated the Light, and loved the Light, but no matter how she had changed, the Light had been as constant as sunlight and stars. Thurion had once called it the heartbeat of the world, and told her sensing the Light was like hearing the heartbeat of a loved one. She’d accepted his words, but she only understood Thurion’s truth in the moment it became a lie.

This is how it all began, Vieliessar thought, dazed. Mosirinde’s Covenant teaches that blood magic leads to madness and destruction. Celelioniel wanted to know how Mosirinde knew—and unriddled The Song of Amrethion instead. I am the Child of the Prophecy, and because of that we are all gathered on this battlefield to reap the terrible harvest of forbidden magic.

Thurion laughed shakily. “And so we end as we began, on a battlefield from which spellcraft is barred.”

“This is not the end, my friend,” she said. I swear to you it is not. “What I began, I shall end.” She swung down from Winter’s saddle, tossing his rein to Thurion.

“I beg you, do not go,” he said. “The spell still runs.”

Vieliessar nodded curtly. “I could ask no one to face such foulness again,” she said. “Do not reproach yourself for not doing a thing no one could do.”

But I must try.

He saw her fall.

It did not matter that it was dark, that the air was fouled with smoke and fog, that her surcoat was in rags and her armor besmirched with mud and blood. He would have known her anywhere.

His lord. His liege. His life.

She had lifted him out of disgrace and exile with a tale he did not credit for a cause he did not believe in. But she was Farcarinon, and Gunedwaen Swordmaster would have followed her to the Vale of Celenthodiel if she had asked.

He barked out a shout of hoarse laughter. She had asked. And now they would all die here, her cause unwon.

No.

I failed the father. I shall not fail the daughter.

He handed his mare’s reins to the komen beside him and swung down from the saddle. He flicked his cervelière from his head, dropped swords and daggers, stripped his armor from his body. “Tell Harwing he is my heir,” he said, and began to walk across the broken ground.

All his life he’d known the Green Robes spoke of their Magery as Light, but this light was not the cool radiance of the moon. It the unforgiving blaze of sun, of fire.

He passed the place where Vieliessar lay, still fighting to rise, to go on. He thought he heard her cry out at the sight of him, but he did not stop. To stop would only be to draw attention to her; her safety lay in misdirection, and misdirection was a Swordmaster’s greatest skill. He raised his hand to close it about the amulet at his throat. A silver nail within a drop of amber, Mage-crafted, bespelled. Harwing had given it to him, last night as they lay together. For luck, he said. For protection. He had not asked then what spells it held, and now it was too late.

He would not see Harwing again.

One step, then another. And another. Forward. His heart thundered in his chest as if it were a war drum. Each beat was a stabbing agony behind his eyes. Gunedwaen felt a rush of wetness upon his face as blood burst from his nostrils, rilling steadily over his face with every painful heartbeat.

Only a little farther.

Let the mazhnune give their attention to the army instead of a lone man afoot and moving slowly. Let none of the new-risen dead stand between him and his goal. He’d thought for some time it was possible to move across the field unopposed. All it required was skill and nerve.

He had both. He had thought them lost, once. She had restored him.

He had pledged himself her sworn vassal.

All he had was hers.

Every step was agony. His vision fogged, his chest burned as if he starved for air. The pain was the pain of beating, freezing, burning. Blood-tinged tears burst from his eyes. There was a brief, lancing agony as his eardrums burst and blood trickled down his neck.

Pain was an old friend. Year by year, Caerthalien had taught him its true meaning. Hunger and cold and the lonely anguish of survival. The pain of maimed limbs that could do nothing. Death was a small thing, for he only went to keep an appointment far too long delayed. Dust filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth, blinding and fine. He staggered against the storm, forcing his eyes to slits.

Not far now.

He could smell burning, as some forgotten bit of metal heated forge-hot, but where it burned him, he did not know, for his whole body thrilled with agony. His mouth filled with the metal taste of blood. His progress slowed to a spasming shamble, as if his body had become a mazhnune’s dead flesh. He raised clawed and shaking hands to wipe his eyes, to see what lay ahead.

From the center of a widening circle of desolation, Ivrulion gazed upon him with eyes that were black and sightless with blood. His mouth drooled dark ichor in the green-violet light, blood gushed from his nose, dripped from his ears, sketched dark tear-tracks over his face. The wind whipped the blood away; where it struck Gunedwaen, it smoked and burned. Gunedwaen staggered into the whirlwind across scorched and smoking dust. His body shook and trembled, each beat of his heart so violent his chest felt bruised from within. What was this pain in comparison to all he had suffered through the years until Serenthon’s daughter recalled him to life?

It does not matter if I die. It matters where I die.

Not far now.

He could no longer see. Over the howling of the maelstrom he heard the wild silver bells of the Hunt riding across the sky.

I come, Huntsman. I come.

A body beneath his hands. A throat. The touch of Ivrulion’s flesh seared his skin as if he grasped forge-hot iron, but he did not feel the fire. He was far away, on a battlefield in autumn, where Farcarinon’s silver wolves howled against the sky.

Then there was nothingness.

There was a bright flash, as if a kindled pyre suddenly fed upon oil. There was a great trembling as all the mazhnune fell in the same moment, and suddenly, across the whole expanse of Ifjalasairaet, there was utter silence and stillness. For a heartbeat there was darkness, but as Rithdeliel gazed toward the sky, the clouds began to scud away.

The spell was broken.

With a weary exhalation, he leaned on his swordhilt. Only the silhouettes of horses and riders standing motionless upon the plain let Rithdeliel know he was not the last living thing in all the land. He did not know how long he stood watching the sky above lighten into blue before he heard the first warhorn sound. It was no call he knew, merely a single note, sustained for as long as the knight-herald had breath. But its meaning was plain.

We live.

He passed the War Princes as they rode toward whatever remained of Vieliessar Farcarinon’s army. They paid no attention to him; he was just another filthy, exhausted warrior making his way to camp. They rode without armor or escort, and Runacarendalur knew then that Vieliessar had won. The War Princes were riding to surrender. He did not see his father among them. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps they’d slain him when they saw what Ivrulion had done.

He should ride after them—ask—claim Caerthalien if Bolecthindial was dead. But what then? He could not bear the thought of kneeling to Vieliessar and offering her Caerthalien’s fealty, and his.

He could not bear the thought of taking her as his Bondmate.

The encampment seemed utterly deserted, the sight of his own pavilion like something out of another lifetime. Slowly and stiffly he slipped from Bentrain’s back; the destrier stood wearily, head hanging. He looped the animal’s reins over the saddle and patted him on the shoulder. “Go find someone to take care of you,” he said. “You deserve it.”

As if he understood, Bentrain sighed gustily and began walking slowly toward the horselines. Runacarendalur entered his pavilion. It was deserted, but there was food and drink laid out on the table, and a bowl of washing water stood beside Runacarendalur’s favorite chair. He wondered who had left it for him.

He poured a tankard full of weak beer and drained it twice before he began the long work of removing his armor. It was sheer bliss to unlace his aketon and peel it away from his bruised and sweat-fouled skin. He sopped one of the cloths waiting neatly folded beside the washing bowl, and scrubbed himself as clean as he could.

I am Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien, he told himself. Caerthalien, greatest of the High Houses.

He shook his head. No longer. There were no more High Houses. Vieliessar had won. And whether she had summoned her victory by fair means or foul, he knew he could not stay to see it. With dragging steps he walked through the curtain into his sleeping chamber. Boots, trousers, tunic, the heavy stormcloak he hadn’t worn on the field. It took him a long and aching while to fumble his way into his clothes. He left the tray of his jewels untouched.

When he walked back into the outer chamber, Helecanth was waiting for him. She’d removed her helmet; her face was bruised from the blows she’d taken in battle.

“My lord,” she said.

Runacarendalur laughed jaggedly. “Did you not know? We have a High King now, and she means us to be done with lords and vassals.”

“You will always be my true lord, Runacarendalur Caerthalien,” Helecanth answered.

Even though he’d half suspected it, to hear himself named War Prince of Caerthalien was like a blow to his chest. He shook his head mutely, reaching for his sword. It lay propped against the chair where he’d left it.

Helecanth stepped forward quickly to pick it up, then stepped forward to arm him. He stopped her for just long enough to slip the ornamental buckle with Caerthalien’s device from the baldric, then stood quietly as she buckled it into place.

“Where do we ride, my lord?” she asked when she was done.

“No.” His tongue and his mind were thick with exhaustion; he struggled to make himself clear. “I go into outlawry. I will not kneel to a High King.”

“Then Caerthalien fights beside you,” Helecanth said steadily.

“Do you think I mean to take my House into useless rebellion?” Runacarendalur said. “I go because the High King is my destined Bondmate—”

His words stumbled to a stop as he heard what he’d said. Ivrulion is dead. The geasa he set upon me is broken. Once he’d yearned for this moment, for his freedom. Now it seemed a distant and trivial thing.

“She is my Bondmate,” he repeated. “But I reject her, and I reject her kingship. All I ask is that I may never hear the name of Vieliessar High King again.” He closed his eyes in weariness. “Stay, Helecanth. They will need you.”

“As you have ordered it, I will obey,” Helecanth said. “But you will need a good horse. Come.”

Numbly Runacarendalur followed as she led him from his pavilion. The weight of the sword upon his hip was the only familiar thing. Helecanth led him to the tiny paddock in the middle of the Caerthalien precinct where horses were held saddled and ready for Caerthalien’s great nobles. Helecanth’s Rochonan was there, muddy, blood-spattered, and weary—and beside her waited another mare. A pale grey palfrey, fresh and alert. Her saddle leather and her bridle were both deep green, the saddle stamped in gold with the three stars of Caerthalien. I suppose my brother won’t need her now.

“Thank you,” Runacarendalur said. “You have been a good— You have been a good friend to me, Helecanth.”

“It has been a privilege to serve you, my lord,” Helecanth answered gravely.

Runacarendalur walked over to the mare. She nuzzled at his chest, obviously hoping for treats. He stroked her nose in mute apology, and with a grunt of effort, thrust his foot into her waiting stirrup and swung into the saddle. She was Ivrulion’s, and I do not even remember her name.…

“Fare you well, Lady Helecanth,” he said.

“Sword and Star defend you, Lord Runacarendalur,” Helecanth answered. She nodded once—as if some question had at last been answered—and turned and walked away.

Nielriel. That is her name. Nielriel.

Runacarendalur pulled the hood of his cloak up to cover as much of his face as he could, and turned Nielriel’s head westward. In the distance lay the forest the army had crossed to reach the place of its destruction—trackless, unmapped. It would conceal him. Where he went then, he did not care. There was nothing left for him in the Fortunate Lands, but the forest would be a good place to hide.