Crown of Vengeance dpt-1 Read online

  The powers that shape our fates mock us. We scoured Farcarinon because it had become a haven of bandits and arrogant mercenaries, thinking we plucked a weapon from the hands of Serenthon’s mad daughter. Instead she claims Oronviel—and makes of it a haven for every broken spur and gallowglass in the Fortunate Lands!

  Bolecthindial had known since Midwinter that Vieliessar did not intend to simply lie quiet in Oronviel Keep and enjoy the freedom and luxury denied her at the Sanctuary of the Star. In the beginning he’d dismissed her ambitions. He’d laughed when he heard she sent her komen galloping to the eight corners of Oronviel in the dead of winter, certain it was a desperate attempt to keep them from rising against her. He’d assumed she would take decades to consolidate her rule, make a marriage alliance, and build up her armies before challenging any of the Hundred.

  He’d found matters less amusing when he learned Oronviel and Ivrithir had settled their ancient quarrels. Elrinonion had sent spies into Oronviel and Ivrithir to learn more. From Ivrithir he learned Atholfol meant to support Oronviel’s claim to the Unicorn Throne. From Oronviel he learned nothing, because the agents he sent across her borders never reported back.

  Bolecthindial drained his cup and reached for the pitcher to refill it. Peacebond or no, he wished they’d drowned Serenthon’s brat in her infancy. Farcarinon never does as it is ordered, and she is Farcarinon to the bone.

  The silence from within Oronviel did not mean Bolecthindial or Elrinonion were in ignorance of her plans. From Great Sea Ocean to the Grand Windsward, the entire realm knew what Vieliessar was doing. The news from Oronviel was nearly enough to make the strange events at the Sanctuary dwindle into irrelevance. After all, it mattered only to the Lightborn who was Astromancer and for how long.…

  But Ivrulion had sent news this morning through Mardioruin Lightbrother. At least Mardioruin is discreet, Bolecthindial thought blackly. Ivrulion knows better than to send me a message save by a Lightborn personally loyal to him—Carangil Lightbrother runs first to Glorthiachiel with everything, whether it is a scraped knee or the news that we are being invaded. And yet … there are things my son will wish no one to know until I have heard them, and so I know I have not yet heard the worst.

  There was a preemptory rap upon his door, and it opened before the servant sitting beside it could ask who was there.

  “It is as we thought.” Runacarendalur strode into the room, stripping off his gloves. He had come straight from the stables; his spurs and chain mail jingled as he crossed the floor. “The farmsteads upon our eastern border are deserted. Stripped.”

  “How many?” Bolecthindial asked.

  Runacarendalur laughed. “All of them! My troop and I rode the bounds for a sennight and saw no one, save in the border towers. And they saw nothing.”

  He stopped before the desk and glanced at his father for permission before filling a second cup from the pitcher of wine. “They watch, of course. Do not think they shirk their duty to Caerthalien and to you. But they saw no smoke nor fire—nor have I ever hunted border raiders who strip a farm of every blanket and mattress. The Landbonds and their Farmholders are gone into Oronviel. Or should we call it Farcarinon now?”

  Bolecthindial glared at him and did not reply.

  “What news from the Sanctuary?” Runacarendalur asked with a sigh.

  “Ivrulion says he has not been able to persuade Hamphuliadiel to end his term as Astromancer. He returns home at the end of the sennight.”

  “That much is good to hear, at least,” Runacarendalur said.

  “Is it?” his father snapped. “Then you will rejoice to learn all of Oronviel’s Postulants have vanished from the Sanctuary.”

  “What?” Runacarendalur said, pausing in the act of drinking. “How? When?”

  “Stop hovering.” Bolecthindial waved toward a chair, and Runacarendalur threw himself into it. “The message came through Mardioruin Lightbrother. Ivrulion could not say much. But his last letter—” Bolecthindial tapped the rolled scroll that lay on the corner of the table, its seal broken. “—said Hamphuliadiel keeps the Lightborn who have come to ask his mind all very close, offering them feasts and entertainment as if they guested in some great lord’s house. Ivrulion said he would make it his purpose to speak with our Postulants there, should he manage to contrive it so the meeting would look like mere chance.”

  “’Rulion is a Prince of the Line,” Runacarendalur pointed out. “Why doesn’t he just order Hamphuliadiel to do what he wants?”

  “And do what when the Astromancer refuses?” Bolecthindial asked, with heavy irony. “We cannot go to war against the Sanctuary of the Star!”

  “I know.” Runacarendalur pulled his braid over his shoulder and tugged at it. “Mother wishes to see you. Before you ask, she’s seen Elrinonion’s latest report.”

  Bolecthindial glanced toward the still-unopened scroll.

  “I know not what Elrinonion says, but Mother says Oronviel is building up a peasant army to slaughter us all in our beds,” Runacarendalur added helpfully. “And after what I saw on the border … she might be right.”

  * * *

  On certain occasions, Lord Bolecthindial took his noon meal in his private rooms attended only by those whom he invited to share it. Today he dined with his wife and children, plus his Warlord and Swordmaster, as was only reasonable on the eve of War Season.

  “When you sent your heir to scour Farcarinon clean of outlaws and landless mercenaries, my lord husband, I was certain that would be an end to our problems—not a beginning,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said with poisonous politeness. “How is it that any traitor knight and hedge bandit can enter Oronviel at will, and we must rely for information on the rumors that unnatural creature chooses to spread? She holds her throne by witchery, you know,” Glorthiachiel finished idly.

  “Mother!” Thorogalas protested halfheartedly.

  “Oh, I don’t mean Magery,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said, waving Thorogalas’s protests aside. “But there is bad blood in that Line. They are all sly and untrustworthy. Look at what her father did, after all.”

  “It is nothing more than any of us would have done,” Domcariel said, and Runacarendalur glanced at his brother in surprise, for Dom was slow and deliberate off the battlefield as well as on it. “You would be the first to agree, Rune,” he added.

  “I should be happy to become High King,” Runacarendalur said. “I think I would choose a different method, though.”

  “It cannot possibly work,” Gimragiel said. As always, he took their mother’s part so thoroughly that he might as well have said nothing and left her to do all the talking. “But think of the disaster to the rest of us when she has lost. If Farcarinon was a refuge of outlaws, Oronviel will be a thousand times worse.”

  “If I knew precisely what was happening in Oronviel, perhaps I would agree,” Lord Bolecthindial said, glaring meaningfully at his Swordmaster.

  “You cannot know precisely, that is true, Lord Bolecthindial,” Elrinonion said reprovingly. “But it is widely known that no matter what the crime, to go before Oronviel’s War Prince and pledge fealty is to be pardoned. As my lord is aware, some insignificant fraction of the Free Companies escaped last year’s Harrowing of Farcarinon. They might—perhaps—be assets to an army. But the majority of outlaws are simple thieves who have no training in arms.”

  “You didn’t get Foxhaven and Glasswall, Father,” Princess Angiothiel said, biting into a roast dove. “Doesn’t Glasswall winter on Sarmiorion land?”

  “It doesn’t matter if they do,” Bolecthindial announced.

  “And Foxhaven upon Nantirworiel, though that is even beyond Sarmiorion and the Uradabhur, so it hardly matters.” Angiothiel said, stretching out her arm to pluck a candied apricot from the tray in the center of the table. “All I know is if I commanded a Free Company and if I had seen the rest of the Free Companies slaughtered, I’d consider offering my services to the only War Prince who hadn’t been involved.”

  “Don’t be
foolish, ’Thia,” Thorogalas said. “They will fight for whoever pays them. They’re a Free Company.”

  “And Oronviel’s coffers are fat,” Runacarendalur pointed out. He glanced at Elrinonion. “Surely Oronviel cannot keep everyone from entering and leaving, Lord Elrinonion?”

  “Entering is one matter, Prince Runacarendalur. Leaving is another. And Ivrithir is a third. There I have been able to gain some information, but—as Lord Bolecthindial knows—it does not encourage.”

  “I cannot believe Atholfol has made common cause with Oronviel!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said. “How could he repay our care and kindness with such treachery?”

  “Perhaps he thinks his taxes are too high,” Angiothiel suggested, and Runacarendalur kicked her under the table.

  “There is still time for you to be married into Haldil or Bethros,” he told his sister. “I’m sure you would enjoy life in the Grand Windsward.”

  Angiothiel tossed her head and did not reply.

  “I did not summon you here to squabble, nor did I summon you to discuss matters,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “In two moonturns we ride against Ullilion. The challenges have been sent. The battlefields have been agreed on. To forfeit will mean paying penalties to Ullilion.” He paused, regarding Warlord Lengiathion balefully. “Your strategy requires Ivrithir and Oronviel to raid against Cirandeiron so Cirandeiron neither rides to Ullilion’s aid nor attacks us while our army is engaged elsewhere. When I sent that Lightborn to Oronviel last autumn to gauge the girl’s temper, you told me you were satisfied.”

  “My lord, Thurion Lightbrother assured me Oronviel would abide by its traditional agreements,” Lengiathion said.

  “And yet—oddly enough—Thurion Lightbrother is now nowhere to be found. And Sweethallow—your gift to him upon his return to us—stands empty,” Runacarendalur pointed out. He wished ’Rulion were back from the Sanctuary. The news would be fresh, and ’Rulion had always been clever enough to fit together a hundred scattered pieces of information to make a round tale of them.

  As the others bickered around the table—save for Lengiathion and Elrinonion, who were being vilified for not doing the impossible—Runacarendalur sat lost in his own thoughts. He wished he’d paid more attention to the girl when she’d lived beneath their roof. He ticked off what he knew of her, hoping the facts would make a story. Took the Green Robe. Fled the Sanctuary and vanished beyond the Astromancer’s ability to find her. Defeated Oronviel’s Warlord—formerly Farcarinon’s Warlord—in single combat. Became War Prince, sparing the former War Prince. Declared she would become High King. Began seeking alliances, while at the same time making Oronviel a haven for outlaws. Convinced one of Caerthalien’s Lightborn to betray them and aid her cause. Talked Atholfol into sending his armies into Oronviel and allowing Oronviel’s armies to hold Ivrithir’s borders.

  There is something more. Something I am missing. I know that, but I do not know what it may be.

  “It is obvious to anyone that this plot is Thoromarth’s, not Vieliessar’s,” Gimragiel said sharply, summoning Runacarendalur’s attention back to the table. “This foolishness about her defeating Rithdeliel Warlord in combat—we all know that’s impossible! She’d been at the Sanctuary all her life—when would she have learned swordplay? It was done so we would spare our treaty hostages. I say we should send their bodies to Oronviel so Thoromarth knows his deception has been uncovered!”

  “And what will that gain us?” Runacarendalur asked. “It will not put an end to any of the things Oronviel is doing.”

  “Does no one find it odd that Thoromarth executed his dear lady Daustifalal the moment that ungrateful Farcarinon brat entered his domain?” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel demanded, her voice high with anger. “And now the Astromancer acts outside of custom—and the Oronviel Lightborn in training at the Sanctuary have vanished! She has beguiled both of them. Anyone may see it.”

  Everyone knew Lady Daustifalal was of Aramenthiali, Caerthalien’s ancient enemy, yet today she was “dear lady Daustifalal” to Mother. Yet we were quick enough to make common cause with Aramenthiali against Farcarinon, Runacarendalur reminded himself. Not for the first time, he wondered why his mother hated Vieliessar so much—and if she did, why had she agreed to foster her? There’d been no advantage in it.

  “This solves nothing,” he said abruptly, setting down his eating knife. “Whether Thoromarth rules in Oronviel or not—whether Vieliessar plots with Hamphuliadiel Astromancer or not—Oronviel cannot go on giving sanctuary to everyone who wishes to flee their rightful overlord. Betroth me to Princess Nanduil and I will take an army to Oronviel in her name.”

  “So quick to surrender Caerthalien, brother?” Princess Ciliphirilir gibed. She had let her twin carry most of the conversation at the meal, but there was not one thought Princess Angiothiel had that Princess Ciliphirilir didn’t share.

  “The betrothal can be broken as soon as Thoromarth and Vieliessar are dead and their army of rabble scattered,” Runacarendalur snapped. “Or would you rather I broke the Code of Battle instead?”

  “Perhaps I may be allowed to rule my own domain for a while longer?” Lord Bolecthindial said acidly. “We all agree Oronviel must be dealt with. But let us not see the threat as greater than it is. Next season is soon enough. It has been the work of years to maneuver Ullilion onto the field without Lady Dendinirchiel squalling to Daroldan before time. I will not waste this chance.”

  Runacarendalur did his best to curb his irritation. This was how warfare was conducted. It always had been. Ullilion was held in clientage by Cirandeiron, and so could ask her aid, but Cirandeiron’s aid came at the price of closer entanglement. Daroldan was another Less House: far enough distant it would not seek to take Ullilion from Cirandeiron, close enough it could ask Ullilion’s aid and give aid in return. But for the first time, the ponderous ritual dance that preceded War Season struck him as dangerous. Each War Season since the end of the Long Peace had brought another tiny change in their ancient customs. The Beastlings grew bolder, the Less Houses grew more impatient, the High Houses ruthlessly tightened their grip on their weaker neighbors. The Windsward Rebellion had been the first spark laid to tinder that smoldered still. Another such spark, and the Hundred would kindle into war—and such a war as would not respect treaties or the Code of Battle.

  “You need not set aside your plans, Father,” Runacarendalur said. “A campaign against Oronviel would be brief, over before you are to meet Ullilion’s army. I would not even require the levy tailles—such meisnes as the knights of our own lands hold would be sufficient.”

  “Three thousand horse against Oronviel?” Domcariel said dubiously. “Oronviel can put twice that into the field.”

  “With time to call them up, yes,” Runacarendalur said. “But Lord Elrinonion says they are with Ivrithir. If we attack swiftly, Oronviel will have to take the field with Ivrithir’s horse—if they will follow Thoromarth at all—and perhaps a taille or two of mercenaries who will desert once they learn no quarter is to be offered. The thing can be done—if it is done swiftly.”

  “Yes. Perhaps,” Lord Bolecthindial said slowly, in tones that Runacarendalur knew from bitter experience meant he intended to give the impression of fairness and consideration while not changing his views in the least. “But I think you are making the mistake of measuring your adversaries by your own abilities. The girl is a Green Robe who has not lived outside the Sanctuary since she was a child. Thoromarth is timid and unwilling to take the audacious risks that gain the greatest reward. I need no Swordmaster to gather gossip to tell me these things. The plan they have woven between them tells me all. They will dress up servants and farmers in bright armor and arm them with swords, thinking to mislead us. And when the time comes for battle—as it will—those mist-knights will vanish like mist in the sun, just as ‘Lord’ Vieliessar’s dreams of the Unicorn Throne will vanish. And Caerthalien will remain.”

  “Caerthalien will remain a jest on the tongues of the Hundred Houses!” Ladyholder
Glorthiachiel cried. “Husband! Speak all you wish of mist and sun and farmers! Oronviel has become a den of wolves!”

  “And if it is, Mother, then any den can be easily cleared in springtide, when the wolves are blind pups,” Runacarendalur answered. He turned back to his father. “A moonturn—no more—and I shall bring you Thoromarth’s and Vieliessar’s heads. I will even drive their rabble-army across the border to prey upon Aramenthiali, if that would please you.”

  “If you do not do this thing,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said in a steel-hard voice, “Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, and Telthorelandor will surely wonder if you have made a secret treaty with Oronviel’s so-called War Prince. Holding Oronviel, why should she not assert her claim to Farcarinon as well?”

  “Because she will be dead!” Bolecthindial roared.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You—” he said, glaring balefully at Runacarendalur, “you ride one sennight from today. Tomorrow you are betrothed to Princess Nanduil. She will accompany you to Oronviel. And you, my lady wife,” Bolecthindial said, turning to Glorthiachiel, “you will accompany the princess—and the army—so you can have the pleasure of seeing Nataranweiya’s brat slain.” Bolecthindial returned his attention to Runacarendalur. “I expect you to return with every knight you ride with. I expect my army back a moonturn after it rides, whether you have yet engaged Oronviel or no. And I say this: if this campaign you so ardently desire costs me my victory over Ullilion, you will heartily wish you had died in Oronviel.”

  Bolecthindial didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed himself to his feet. The others—all save Glorthiachiel—rose hastily, standing in silence as the War Prince strode from the room.

  The door slammed.

  “Dining with Father is always so interesting,” Princess Angiothiel said happily.

  INTERLUDE TWO

  KNOWLEDGE AND TREACHERY