Crown of Vengeance dpt-1 Page 47

  Gunedwaen gazed into the distance. “Serenthon tried. His enemies feared him, and that fear was the greatest weapon in his arsenal. You don’t want to be feared, and you’re right. Fear is a good weapon on a battlefield, a bad one in a Great Hall. But you must become a legend. A dream all can dream together. A dream they can share and follow. If you do not, your army will lose all hope and be destroyed with its first great defeat. Now it’s late, and I’ve said far too much. With your permission, my lord, I will withdraw.”

  “Of course,” she answered.

  Gunedwaen got to his feet and walked to the door of the pavilion. His expression was thoughtful, but she would not gaze into his thoughts. “Rest you well, Vieliessar High King,” he said, turning back to regard her.

  “And you,” Vieliessar said. As if I could, after that.

  Amrethion High King, what hradan have you set upon me?

  Her untouched tea had gone cold by the time she rose from the table and sought her bed.

  * * *

  Long before dawn, the army began to move. First to depart were the scouts and foragers, not just the commonfolk on shaggy ponies whose sole task was to warn of the presence of enemy forces in the Mystrals, who had been on patrol since the army had arrived in Ceoprentrei, but komen ready to fight.

  Once the scouts were away, the army followed. It was odd to see so many in the same colors. The infantry and former mercenaries wore tabards, the komen wore surcoats, and all were green with a rearing silver Unicorn upon them. Her device. Her colors. The mark of the armies of the High King.

  Once all had been set in motion, Vieliessar took her personal guard and rode up to the top of the pass. It was chill and dark, still a full candlemark before dawn. The Dragon’s Gate had been worked and shaped long ago by Lightborn: the pass was broad and open, and she could see down into the hills on the western side below, where the army of the Alliance gathered.

  The earth was a mirror of the sky, dotted with thousands of points of light. The large ones were cookfires and watchfires. The small ones were the torches set at the boundaries of the Alliance’s camp and in front of many of the tents. Here and there she could see balls of Silverlight glowing with a moon-blue radiance. She wondered if Prince Runacarendalur was down there somewhere.

  Of course he would be. He was Caerthalien’s most able General.

  Realizing where her mind had strayed, she shoved the thought aside irritably. She wouldn’t think about him at all save for the Magery that had made him a knife at her throat. If we were not Soulbonded, I would slay him with a light heart. He is all that is corrupt and shameful in the Hundred Houses.

  “There are a lot of them,” Komen Mathoriel said quietly.

  “Yes,” Vieliessar answered. Her personal guard had suffered heavy losses in Mangiralas, and because of that Komen Orannet—a hedge knight of Oronviel—had become its head, but protocol demanded Vieliessar have a komen of higher rank to head her guard, and she valued Komen Mathoriel’s steadiness. She’d taken care to fill the rest of the places with komen of other Houses than Oronviel, for she was no longer War Prince of Oronviel, but High King.

  “We will prevail,” Mathoriel said firmly.

  Vieliessar wasn’t certain whether it was tact or optimism that prompted Mathoriel’s remark, but it made good hearing.

  * * *

  “What do I need to do to become High King?” Her words returned to haunt her through the long days of descent through the Mystrals. She stood upon the threshold of a battle she might well lose. Yet it was a battle that must be fought whether she wished to or not, for she had begun her quest to become High King not for power or ambition, but in fear and dread. The Song of Amrethion prophesied a terrible Darkness that would ride across the land during the years of her life, and if the Hundred Houses were not united against it, the alfaljodthi would be erased from the world. All she had done, all she would do, was meant to prepare her folk and her kin against that day. It was that battle to come she must think of, and not the battles she must fight to reach it. Lose them, and she lost all. But win them …

  Every war began, so Arilcarion War-Maker had written in Of the Sword Road, with its own hero tale, as if it were a great lord who had lived a long life and now had a storysong crafted to be sung over its funeral pyre. And any prince who clung to that storysong after a campaign began would drink to drowning of the cup of defeat and loss, for no mortal prince could force the world to follow their whim as if they wore the cloak of the Starry Huntsman.

  She would not have the Hundred Houses’ strength to call on if she obliterated it. To imagine a victory that did not begin with the destruction of all the War Princes and their meisnes was madness, but madness or not, it was the only road to victory—true victory.

  Gunedwaen says I must become a legend, a dream. I do not think I can. We are no longer a people of dreams or trust. Bolecthindial, Girelain, Manderecheriel will never accept my bare word. Oh, if only I could show the War Princes of the Alliance what I have seen in my visions! Surely then they would understand.…

  Could she?

  Not her vision of the city, but the city itself?

  Find Celephriandullias-Tidorangelor. Take Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor. Fill its lands with the thousands upon thousands who had followed her out of the West …

  And the War Princes would rail in vain against a victory already accomplished, for she would have the Unicorn Throne.

  Oh, it would be only the object and not the vast empire it symbolized, but that would not matter. If she held it, the envoys of the War Princes would come to her there, to seek treaties or negotiate wars. Amrethion’s city would become her greatest weapon. The commons of every domain would seek out Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor to become her subjects. Without the farmers and farmworkers, the craftworkers, the servants, those who worked, the War Princes’ vast armies would collapse. They would be forced to surrender or starve.

  There were a thousand reasons not to do it.

  To reach Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor—to find Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor—she would have to lead her army through the lands of War Princes who owed fealty to War Princes of the Alliance. The lessons she had learned during War Season were clear: fear would cause them to support their ancient masters. She might hope for more, but the best she could expect was that they would merely ride to join her enemy instead of marshaling their forces immediately against her.

  Or she might win.

  But first she must find her destination.

  When Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor fell, the Uradabhur was a primeval wilderness. The maps she had were the best available, but they were limited. Nothing beyond the borders of the domains was shown. Why should it be? Who could possibly need to know about it? All she had to aid her were the ghost-whispers of ancient memories. Amrethion’s lords hunted Pelashia’s children, and their children’s children, and they had fled west …

  If she chose that course, it meant gambling her army on a chance out of legend and prophecy, instead of waging a conventional war she might actually win. And winning, lose—for all of them.

  She had as little choice as she ever had.

  Only let the day come when the magic of the Prophecy has done all Amrethion set it to do, when I can say I do nothing but by my own wish—and say, too, on that day: it is well.

  * * *

  “We will be received by a committee of welcome,” Rithdeliel said, gesturing toward the valley ahead.

  The day was warm and bright, and a candlemark or two would see them out of the pass and within Jaeglenhend’s true borders. Nilkaran Jaeglenhend had come with all his army to meet them. His encampment was set upon a hilltop and his pavilion—striped in Jaeglenhend azure and white—was easily visible even from here. Her scouts had been reporting back for days that Nilkaran had gathered what was probably the whole of his army to meet her.

  “Welcome does not disturb me,” Vieliessar commented dryly.

  “They’re a few miles off, and Kenyman Scout saw no evi
dence they mean to attack. Today, at least,” Rithdeliel answered.

  “Just as well.” Her whole force outnumbered Nilkaran’s at least ten to one—but her whole force would not be down the mountain for some days yet. “So let us make camp.”

  “And give him a ’mark or two to brood before you do what you always do,” Rithdeliel said.

  “‘What I always do’?” Vieliessar asked, turning to gaze at him. “And that would be…?”

  Rithdeliel smiled. “Why, send an envoy to ask, most politely, that he surrender his armies and his lands and pledge fealty to you, of course.”

  His comment startled her into laughter, for it was true. But she sobered quickly. Though it had worked often enough to gain her an army, there was an army following her that would not be so easily subdued.

  * * *

  There was a valley located only a few miles from the trailhead; Rithdeliel’s forces were soon joined there by Thoromarth and his warriors and then by Iardalaith and the Warhunt Mages. Vieliessar’s camp expanded slowly and inexorably. Lord Nilkaran’s scouts were obviously keeping as close a watch on it as she was on his. But he managed to do one thing to surprise her: he sent an emissary to her before she sent one to him.

  Moraigre Lightbrother looked too young to be wearing the Green Robe, but he was obviously used to this work, for he displayed no sign of nervousness at being intercepted by pickets and conducted to Vieliessar’s pavilion. It had been the first structure set: orders must be given, decisions must be made, and her scarlet pavilion made a logical focal point for the engineers who must lay out the roads of the camp. Many campaigns ago she had resigned herself to going inside and staying there, no matter her inclinations: it was a waste of everyone’s time and energy to constantly have to seek her out. At least my commanders have the luxury of going where they wish and doing what needs doing, she thought rebelliously. Moraigre Lightbrother’s arrival was a welcome distraction.

  “To Lord Vieliessar, War Prince of Oronviel, Lord Nilkaran, War Prince of Jaeglenhend, sends greetings,” Moraigre began, when the first formalities were over and he was ready to deliver his message.

  “Lord Vieliessar is not Prince of Oronviel,” Aradreleg corrected calmly. “Lord Vieliessar is High King of all the land.”

  “I, well, I have the message as it was given to me,” Moraigre said, smiling engagingly. “If its form does not please, I shall inform my lord.”

  Vieliessar smiled in return. “Let us proceed to the message itself, if you would. What does Lord Nilkaran want?”

  There was a pause as Moraigre skipped mentally over several long speeches of flattery, though Vieliessar’s True Speech let her hear them as a low mutter in his mind. She had long since given up feeling shame over her near-constant use of it to eavesdrop on all around her.

  “He greets you, and wishes you well, and is prepared to offer your army safe conduct to the eastern border of his domain. Escorted by his army, of course,” the young Lightborn finished.

  Aradreleg was too well schooled to laugh, and Komen Mathoriel was too well bred to. Vieliessar sat quietly, her face as smooth as new cream, delaying only to give Moraigre the impression she was considering his master’s words. The proposal Nilkaran made was both audacious and clever, for it did not force him to declare for her, nor did it shut the door to such a declaration in future. But if she accepted it, she would be left with an enemy at her back, and her enemies would receive haven.

  “Your lord’s desire to avoid unnecessary battle does him credit,” she began simply. “And he knows as well as I that a great army pursues me closely, and when we meet, we must fight.”

  She felt Moraigre relax, thinking she was going to accept Nilkaran’s offer.

  “Yet this is an offer I must decline,” she continued. “I must and will have Jaeglenhend. I require Lord Nilkaran to swear fealty to me, to place all of Jaeglenhend beneath my rule, to deliver to me for my use all those of his meisne, and to provide me with such provisions and other materials as I may require.”

  “I…” Moraigre was too experienced to show the full extent of his dismay, but he was obviously at a loss for words. Foremost in his mind was concern—not outright fear, but not far from it—at Nilkaran’s reaction when he delivered her message.

  “It is only to be understood that Nilkaran Jaeglenhend will find my answer disappointing. And he will have many questions. I shall send a messenger of my own with you upon your return, so that he may have answers to all the questions he may wish to ask,” she said. At least those I intend to answer. She turned to the nearest servant. “Go and bring to me Iardalaith Lightbrother, if you please. I must send him to speak with Lord Nilkaran, and I have much to say to him before he goes.”

  * * *

  She sent four Lightborn back with Moraigre: Iardalaith, Rondithiel, whose gravitas should be enough to reassure the Lightborn of Jaeglenhend that she kept the Covenant, Harwing, who was an expert spy, and Isilla, whose Keystone Gift was Overshadowing. All were members of the Warhunt, able and willing to fight if they must.

  They did not return to Vieliessar’s camp until late that night. Iardalaith said they had been forced to sneak from the Jaeglenhend camp under Cloakspell and steal their own horses back. Lord Nilkaran had not mistreated them in any fashion, but he had asked them to remain until he had an answer to send back with them.

  “Had we done so, we would have grown old in his company,” Harwing Lightbrother said mockingly.

  “He means to fight. I am almost certain of it,” Isilla said, and Rondithiel nodded in agreement.

  Vieliessar glanced around the pavilion. Much of her army was still in the mountains, so not all her Senior Commanders were present, but Thoromarth, Rithdeliel, Atholfol Ivrithir, and Diorthiel of Araphant had been summoned to hear the report of the Lightborn.

  “It will be tomorrow, then,” Rithdeliel said. “You’re here, and most of your army isn’t. Tomorrow his knights will still outnumber yours.”

  Thoromarth nodded in agreement. “Nilkaran knows how close behind us our enemy is,” he said. “Expect him to attack you tomorrow, Lord Vieliessar, but don’t expect him to stand and fight. He’ll want to delay you until the Alliance can deal with you.”

  “Set his camp afire tonight and he’ll surrender at dawn,” Atholfol said cheerfully.

  “I need to take his army, not kill it,” Vieliessar said. “And under other circumstances, I might hold back the use of Magery on the field because I know it will make Nilkaran and his komen fight as if they’re rats about to be drowned. But we do not have such a luxury. We must win quickly, and that means Magery.”

  “The Warhunt stands ready,” Iardalaith said.

  “If we do not carry the day we may at least have the joy of watching Nilkaran try to decide whether he will throw Jaeglenhend’s storehouses open to the Alliance when it comes,” Diorthiel said with a faint smile. “I do not think he has realized he must declare for you or for them.”

  “He’s that much of an idiot,” Isilla said bluntly. “And a monster as well. He sends knights to patrol the countryside for those commons who wish to join you. When his knights catch anyone, they strike off their hands and feet and leave them to bleed to death.”

  “I wish him joy of finding Farmfolk to reap his harvests instead of leaving them to spoil in the field,” Harwing Lightbrother said with an edged smile. Vieliessar did not miss the startled glance that passed between Thoromarth and Atholfol. Her lords had been as shocked as her enemies to discover the depth of contempt their commonborn subjects felt for them.

  “I will be glad to offer them my protection,” Vieliessar said. “And enrich my army at the expense of Nilkaran’s domain.”

  “He’ll realize that he’s caught between wolf and lion soon, though perhaps not soon enough,” Iardalaith said. “Though I have some ideas on how the Warhunt may hasten his reflections.”

  “I will hear them in a moment. But … can you Overshadow Nilkaran, Isilla?” Vieliessar asked. It was a blunter question than she re
ally wanted to ask; Atholfol and the others disliked reminders of the power some of the Lightborn could wield. But Lord Nilkaran was the sort of prince who guarded his power jealously and ruled by rank and fear. He would not have a strong council of advisors around him, nor would he surround himself with Lords Komen strong enough to challenge any decree he made. Remove him and no one else would truly be prepared to take and hold power.

  “No,” Isilla answered instantly. “I could arrange to get close enough to him to try, but he stinks of Warding.” She rubbed her arms through the fabric of her tunic, as if her skin itched. “No spell of control or illusion will touch him, I suspect.”

  “Of course, there’s still lightning,” Harwing said cheerfully. “Not that striking him dead would be especially useful,” he added hastily.

  “Better, perhaps, to convince him by persuasive argument that Lord Vieliessar’s cause is just and worthy of support,” Rithdeliel said silkily.

  “Yes,” Iardalaith agreed. “And while you are doing that, I shall take my Warhunt to his castel. We can strip the Wardings from its stones—and the spell’s effects will be visible at once, even to the Lightless.”

  Vieliessar concealed her pleasure; it would not do for her Lords Komen to become jealous of the Warhunt Mages and their leader. But Iardalaith’s instincts for what would most efficiently destroy an enemy’s will to fight were sound: the Wards that rendered a castel invulnerable were the casting of years, even decades, the work of hundreds of Lightborn. If the Warhunt Dispelled the Wards of Lord Nilkaran’s Great Keep, Nilkaran’s Lightborn could not recast them. This would not be the same spell she had cast at Laeldor—Rot had turned every scrap of metal and wood to dust almost instantly. But now she wanted to display her power, not terrify her enemies into fighting without the hope of victory.

  “Let it be done, and I thank you, Iardalaith, for that was well thought of,” Vieliessar said, leaning back in her chair to stretch her tired muscles. This would be a night of planning and no sleep. “Now. Have we decent maps of Jaeglenhend? Someone get them, and we will decide where the rest of us are to make this persuasive argument.”