Crown of Vengeance dpt-1 Page 42
“No,” Aradreleg corrected. “First you will bathe—you smell like a wet horse—and then you will eat, and then I will find Brinnie and see if she knows the location of the chest with your gowns and second-best jewels. Then you will dress, and then you will have War Prince Aranviorch brought to you.”
* * *
“Where is my son?” Aranviorch demanded the moment he was brought into Vieliessar’s pavilion. “Prince Gatriadde—where is he?”
“Why do you think I have him?” Vieliessar answered, just as bluntly.
“Because he was taken from the keep when I was. I want him brought here at once!”
“Ah.” That answered one question that had been puzzling her—why Mangiralas had left the field in the middle of the battle, without her needing to demand a parley-halt to tell them she held the War Prince. Nadalforo must have taken Gatriadde as well as Aranviorch in order to have as a messenger someone whose word Ladyholder Faurilduin—or those in her camp—would believe. “Perhaps his mother will bring him, for I have sent for her. But you and I have unfinished business, Lord Aranviorch. I mean to have Mangiralas and your oath. Give them to me.”
“And if I do not?” Aranviorch said.
“Then you will die, and your wife will die, and your son will die, and I shall go to your keep and take it a second time, and slay all who will not swear to me. And if your army wishes to go to war with me, then it must do so afoot, for I have taken from you all the horses which are your great wealth, and they are mine already.”
“Why?” Aranviorch roared. “Mangiralas has done nothing to you!”
“Mangiralas did not surrender when I required it,” Vieliessar answered bleakly.
Ladyholder Faurilduin and Prince Gatriadde arrived within the candlemark, accompanied by Harwing Lightbrother and Camaibien Lightbrother. Vieliessar was shocked and saddened by how young the prince—now the Heir-Prince, as he must know—was, and remembered again that he and Princess Maerengiel had been of one birth.
“So you have won,” Ladyholder Faurilduin said bleakly, looking from Vieliessar to Aranviorch.
“I have,” Vieliessar said. “And now I take fealty of your husband. But not of you. Not yet. Did Camaibien give my words to you?”
“As you said them,” Lady Faurilduin said, her voice unyielding. “You did not abide by the Code of Battle!” she said accusingly.
“And yet, your knights who rode to my lines in surrender were returned to you.” Those who could still ride had been sent back to Mangiralas on palfreys after the end of each day’s battle. Those who were too badly wounded to ride had been carried onto the field on litters and left for Mangiralas to retrieve.
“You would have held them to ransom if you’d possessed Lightborn enough to Heal them,” Lady Faurilduin said accusingly.
“War is not a game,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Nor will I treat it as a game. When I have searched your camp and satisfied myself, then will I take your oath, if you will give it.”
“Never,” Lady Faurilduin said flatly.
“Faurilduin!” Aranviorch cried.
“Husband, you must do what is best for our lands. But Maerengiel has gone to ride with the Silver Hooves—slain by the cowardly weapons Lord Vieliessar sees fit to bring to the field of honor—and I will not live in a world forged upon the anvil of her devising.”
“Do not—!” Aranviorch said, and his plea was to Vieliessar, not to his wife.
“She may die with honor,” Vieliessar said, “but if she will not swear to me, she will die. And I will not take her oath until I know any of my people she took prisoner are well, for I swore to her that if she caused the deaths of any who lay helpless in her hands, she would die.”
“Then … Gatriadde, Mangiralas is yours now. Guard her well,” Aranviorch said.
“Father!” Prince Gatriadde said, horrified.
“I know you did not look for this,” Aranviorch said with dignity, “but we cannot choose our fates. Only the Silver Hooves may do that.”
“Is that your last word to me?” Vieliessar asked. Aranviorch inclined his head. Faurilduin ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. “Then let a Circle be made for Aranviorch’s death. Gatriadde, will you renounce your claim to the Unicorn Throne and swear yourself to be my loyal vassal?”
“I—I—I wasn’t supposed to be War Prince!” Gatriadde said. “It was Maeren! How can you— You can’t, Lord Vieliessar—the Horse Fair is next year, and—”
“Be silent, Gatri,” Lady Faurilduin said quietly. “Your father, your sister, and I are dead and Mangiralas is yours. You are of good stock. Trust in your breeding.” She turned away as if Gatriadde no longer existed.
Vieliessar watched Prince Gatriadde as her guards led Lord Aranviorch and Lady Faurilduin to the place they would await their executions, knowing as she did that she had her answer: Faurilduin had let prisoners in her hands die. The prince took a deep breath. “You must tell me Oronviel’s terms, Lord Vieliessar,” he said with painful dignity. “I did not expect to be War Prince.”
She repeated what she had said before—vassalage and renunciation of his claim upon the Throne. She did not detail the law to which Mangiralas would now be bound, for Gatriadde would be oathbound to do all she asked of him, and she did not think he could remember her words from one moment to the next just now.
“But the horses?” he said desperately. “You won’t hurt them, or—or take them away, or—”
“The horses of Mangiralas will be in your care,” she said, holding up her hand. She meant to strip Mangiralas of all it held, but not to destroy it.
“Yes. All right. All right. I’ll swear. I’ll do whatever you ask. But I don’t—I don’t—”
Patiently, Vieliessar took Gatriadde through the phrases of the oath, then had Aradreleg set the spell so he could swear. She had to prompt him several times, and when it was over, he burst into tears.
“There, young lord, hush,” Camaibien said, going to him and taking the new War Prince in his arms. “It’s done and you’ll take no more hurt of it. The Silver Hooves have chosen to give Mangiralas into Oronviel’s care, and we must trust in Them, for do They not ride horses more glorious than any we can dream of breeding? Just so. As horse and rider promise to keep one another safe, so shall Mangiralas and Oronviel keep one another now.”
“Yes, I—yes. That is so,” Gatriadde said. “I may keep him, can’t I?” he said in sudden fear, turning to Vieliessar.
“If it is his wish to remain with you, I will not take him from you,” Vieliessar said, speaking gently, as to a child. Gatriadde was barely more than a boy, and even if he were to have become War Prince, it should not have been for many centuries. “But I shall need him to return to your camp now and bring to me the Lightborn of Mangiralas, for I have need of them.”
“I’ll go with him,” Gatriadde said. “I should. I’m War Prince now.”
“Yes,” Vieliessar said. “If you please, go with Lord Gunedwaen to our horselines, and you may choose palfreys to bear you.”
Gatriadde nodded jerkily. Gunedwaen stepped to the door of the tent and gestured for the new War Prince to precede him. Camaibien moved to follow, but Vieliessar rose to her feet, gesturing to him to approach her.
“If you take two candlemarks to return my prisoners and bring your Lightborn to me, his parents will be dead by the time he returns,” she said quietly. “He need only see their bodies on the pyre.”
“If you had showed such honor in war as you do in victory, my young lord would not be forced to a task so far beyond his skill,” Camaibien said sorrowfully.
“I will not leave your young lord undefended,” Vieliessar answered. “My word to you.”
* * *
There was rejoicing in the camp the evening of the victory, for not only had Vieliessar won, but Princess Nothrediel and Prince Monbrauel were among those prisoners returned by Mangiralas. If the war had continued many more days, Thoromarth would have lost two more of his children, for while Lady Faurilduin had not
executed any of the prisoners she had taken, neither had she allowed their injuries to be Healed by Lightborn, and about a third of those she had captured had died.
Bethaerian was among the dead.
I should not care more for her life because she was known to me.
Vieliessar left her victory feast early, for she felt an uneasiness in her mind which she would not impart to her commanders. She passed her sentries and walked out among the pyres. Here the War Prince of Mangiralas and his lady. There, the Heir-Princess of Mangiralas. Bethaerian. Virry. Janondiel. She might count until the sun rose and not number all her dead.
“It is not a light thing if you were not raised to it.”
Vieliessar glanced back. Nadalforo had followed her from the camp and now stood watching her.
“It should not be a light thing even so,” Vieliessar answered, and Nadalforo shrugged.
“It is war,” she said. “In war, some die.”
“Why do we fight?” Vieliessar asked. Impulse, but also the question that had burned in her even before she ever accepted her destiny.
Nadalforo laughed, a short bark of laughter that held no mirth. “For land, for power, for advantage, for vengeance. You fight to become High King, but I do not know why.”
“To end this,” Vieliessar answered. “And because the day will come when we can no longer quarrel among ourselves.”
Vieliessar turned away, gazing out over the battlefield—the encampment of the dead. I am lonely, she realized in surprise. It had been years—decades—since she had been a servant in the Sanctuary, spending happy evenings in the Servants’ Hall or in the Common Room with friends. She had lost them one by one. She rubbed her hand over her face.
“Victory rides with the clever,” Nadalforo replied. “So far you have been clever enough.”
I have been lucky, Vieliessar thought, turning back to gaze out over the pyres. “The Silver Hooves grant—” she began. She did not finish the sentence. Nadalforo had gone.
* * *
It was a moonturn and a half after the defeat of Mangiralas, but Vieliessar and her people had not stood idle. All across the West, rebellion had spread like wildfire, causing more folk to flock to her banner. Places had needed to be found for all, and this time the newcomers were not only the commonfolk of the Less Houses of the West, but their Lords Komen and great nobles as well. Where she could, Vieliessar had sent troops to support the Less Houses as they fought the High, but she hoped to avoid becoming embroiled in a drawn-out campaign in the west—and one with a score of commanders, all with different goals.
Nor had Vieliessar herself been idle, for there were other Western Houses whose fealty she must gain though they would never join her in battle. So she had gone to take promises of Amrolion and Daroldan, traveling to the Western Shore to do so.
Now it was time for the next step in her plan. She had always meant to take the Unicorn Throne with as little fighting as possible. Now she meant to cement her victory with retreat.
“We shall take Ullilion next,” Vieliessar said, indicating it on the map. “Then I shall divide the army.”
“Divide it?” Rithdeliel said. “Is that wise?”
“It is necessary,” Vieliessar answered. “One third shall go to Thoromarth, one third to Atholfol, and the third part to you, Rithdeliel. Thoromarth, you must ride against Tunimbronor, Vorogalast, and Sierdalant. These Less Houses are disputed between Aramenthiali and Vondaimieriel.”
“And neither one will appreciate me riding in to snatch them from their grasp,” Thoromarth said. “You should take Aramenthiali first, then those Less Houses.”
“If I had an army as great as Aramenthiali’s, I would do so gladly,” Vieliessar answered tartly. “But I do not. Yet you may not face as much opposition as you think. Vondaimieriel did not declare for Serenthon during his attempt to gain the High Kingship, but neither did she oppose him. And Finfemeras Vondaimieriel was similarly evasive when I sent to him at Midwinter.”
“Vondaimieriel’s got her back to the Mystrals,” Thoromarth pointed out. “Finfemeras is cautious. Vondaimieriel can’t afford to lose territory in war. She has no place to go.”
“There will be fighting all through that region,” Gunedwaen said. “Aramenthiali battles Vondaimieriel this season. Vorogalast and Sierdalant are in clientage to Aramenthiali; Tunimbronor to Vondaimieriel. I don’t suppose I need to mention that Caerthalien attacks Ullilion as well?”
“Then my task will be easier, for Ullilion will be embattled by two foes,” she said.
There was a moment of silence, then Thoromarth spoke. “It is not that I am not grateful to be given an army and a hopeless task,” he said, “but you speak of three elements to your army, and yet you claim none of them for yourself. Where will you be?”
“I shall buy us time,” Vieliessar answered.
But time could only be bought with information, and so after the meeting had drawn to a close, Vieliessar dismissed her commanders and retreated to the inner chamber of her pavilion to gain it.
One of the things that had bemused—and amused—Vieliessar once she became War Prince of Oronviel was her discovery of the portable spellkits (so called by the Lightless) the Lightborn used. It was true that to cast any of the spells she had learned within the Sanctuary, all that was needed was the power of a Flower Forest and a Mage’s own Light, but it was also true that many spells required a particular stillness or a period of cleansing meditation. Nearly all Lightborn meditated regularly, both to still their thoughts, and to take the opportunity to touch the Light without needing to use it.
In the Sanctuary, the elements necessary to ease a Lightborn’s path were available in every practice room and sleeping chamber. Outside the Sanctuary, Lightborn might be called to follow their masters on progress, on campaign, or simply to move from manor to manor. To be certain they had with them all they needed, they had evolved the custom of storing their favored items in a special case, which they brought with them wherever they went or were sent.
The one she now used had been Celeharth’s.
Made of ivory, it was covered in pebbled, iridescent, red-gold leather: gryphon skin. The hide had worn away at the corners of the box through centuries of handling, and the ivory, yellowed with age, showed through.
The hinges and the clasps were simple things, for any of the Lightborn could Seal a container so utterly it could not be opened by the Lightless, but they were beautifully wrought, of fine gold, in the fashion of feathers. The interior of the box was padded and had been shaped to hold its contents immobile: one fat and two narrow storage canisters, a small cordial bottle, a brazier, a teapot, and a teacup.
The pot and cup were of unadorned shin’zuruf—their beauty came from their exquisite shape and delicacy. The cordial bottle was much the same as any that might have been found within the Sanctuary, but made of white amber instead of the traditional crystal. It did not hold medicine but rather a flower cordial that could be mixed with water. The narrow canisters were of gold, their surfaces elaborately etched with the form of a dragon. One held charcoal disks, the other, Light-incense. The last was the traditional cherry-bark tea canister; this still held tea that Celeharth had blended with his own hands.
The tiny brazier was very old—older, Vieliessar thought, than Celeharth—and carved of cinnabar in the form of a coiling dragon holding a golden bowl in its claws. None of the histories she’d read mentioned dragons as living creatures—but then everything she’d read said unicorns didn’t exist, either, and she’d seen one. She wondered if dragons—assuming there were dragons—looked anything like the carving.
She made her preparations with quick efficiency, lighting the charcoal, measuring the tea, pouring water over it from the iron kettle. Once it had brewed, she sipped it slowly, relishing its subtle flavors as she willed her spirit to stillness. When the cup was empty, she spilled tiny grains of golden incense onto the burning charcoal and inhaled the familiar fragrant smoke.
She was ready.
Thurion? Thurion, are you there?
Every Lightborn experienced Farspeech differently. Hers showed her the place she ’Spoke to as if she stood there in flesh.
For a long moment there was no answer, no sense of another place forming its image behind her eyes, and the worry that Thurion might be lost or dead was almost enough to break her concentration.
Then: “Vielle? Oh, thank the Light! It has been so long since we have ’Spoken, and I have heard so many tales of you…”
She opened her inward eyes and an image slowly came into focus. He sat in a chamber that was clearly the accommodation of an honored guest—she could tell by the tapestries on the walls, the furnishings, the carpets upon the floors. But the windows were nothing more than narrow slits, instead of the ones she knew from the Great Keeps of Caerthalien, Oronviel, and Laeldor: wide open ones hung with shutters of fragrant wood or filled with designs in colored glass. It was clear from the openings in the walls that the walls were much thicker than they should be in any chamber meant to house anything but a prisoner. Thurion was an honored guest somewhere in the Grand Windsward, then, for the thick walls were meant to keep out more than the wind and its winter chill.
“I have been much occupied these last sennights, I fear,” she answered. “I took Mangiralas as I said I would. War Prince Gatriadde has sworn fealty to me.”
“Gatriadde?” Thurion’s mental voice blurted, “but—”
“All the rest of the Line Direct are dead,” she answered, knowing Thurion could feel the sorrow in her thoughts. “But after Mangiralas, I forged treaties with Amrolion and Daroldan while my army fought elsewhere. I hold much of the West. But what of you? When I last heard, you had reached Encherelimier to place your petition before Celelioniel’s own House.”