Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (32 page)

“No matter,” Vieliessar answered lightly. “Send your knights to me and I will instruct them properly. And so that your lands do not lie undefended, I shall send my army to you, to keep your borders and bring me your outlaws.”

“You truly mean to do this,” Atholfol said, as if only now realizing it.

“I do,” Vieliessar answered.

“Very well. We have no Lightborn here, but once they were not needed for the swearing of oaths.” He drew the dagger from his belt and pulled off his heavy leather hunting gloves. Holding the blade steady, he scored a long even gash across the palm of his hand, then held the blade out to her.

The kiss of the steel against her skin was first cold, then burning. She held out her hand, and he clasped it.

“Vieliessar Oronviel, I renounce my claim upon the Unicorn Throne and swear that while I yet draw breath I shall do all that lies within my power to deliver it into your hand,” Atholfol said.

“Atholfol Ivrithir, I take your oath, and for this pledge of loyalty I swear I will not allow you to lie unransomed in the halls of my enemies, nor languish a prisoner in their dungeons, nor permit your body to be dishonored in death.”

They stood a moment longer, hands clasped, then Atholfol let go and stepped back. “I suppose I should go and tell Bedreithir Warlord she will not be spending the winter beneath the comfort of her own roof. You may expect the first of my levies within the sennight.”

“I shall leave them escort at Torchwood,” she answered. “You are welcome to come yourself, of course,” she added, knowing the offer would not be accepted.

“I think it will be more entertaining to keep Bolecthindial in suspense some while longer. I believe he wishes to try Lady Dendinirchiel’s patience next summer, and does not wish Lord Manderechiel to take overmuch notice when he moves his army across Farcarinon to reach Ullilion, for he bid me raid against Aramenthiali when War Season comes. But I am certain there will be many reasons I cannot.”

“Or it may be that you will do more than raid against Aramenthiali once a few more moonturns have passed,” Vieliessar answered, gravely pleased. “I give you good fortune, Ivrithir.”

“And to you the same, Oronviel. And may the Starry Hunt watch over us both,” Atholfol answered. He turned away then, leading his destrier back into Ivrithir. Vieliessar watched after him for a few moments before mounting Sorodiarn and riding back to where she had left Aradreleg.

*   *   *

Before Rade Moon was ended, Sunalanthaid Lightbrother came from the Sanctuary of the Star to demand that Oronviel surrender Vieliessar Lightsister to its justice. He was already out of temper when he reached the castel, for he had been met—before he was many miles past the border—by a troop of Oronviel knights. Despite Rithdeliel’s pessimism—and Lady Nothrediel’s declarations that the thing could not be done—the majority of Oronviel’s knights were happy to have an easing of winter’s long sennights of boredom. Hunting was their main pastime in winter, and they quickly found there was good sport to be had in hunting outlaws.

With Lightborn traveling with every troop of knights—just as Vieliessar had promised—Vieliessar could be certain of immediate information from every corner of Oronviel. She was aware of Sunalanthaid’s coming a full sennight before he arrived, and used that time to prepare to receive him. For the first time in her life she wore the elaborate finery of a noble lady: the layers of underskirts of stiffened silk, the gilded slippers, the heavy jeweled belt riding low upon her hips, the rings—including the signet of Oronviel—and the heavy bracelets. Her hair, once shorn and worn unadorned to show her status as a Mage, was still too short to braid properly, so she wore it swept back from her temples. A pair of heavy carven combs held it in place; the combs were sewn to a long length of soft, heavy silk that flowed over her shoulders and coiled about her throat.

Not one thread of any of her garments was green.

She chose to receive Sunalanthaid in her private rooms instead of the Great Hall. To do so would emphasize her status as War Prince: Hamphuliadiel had sent Sunalanthaid because he wished to display his authority over her. She had refused requests from Thoromarth, Gunedwaen, and Rithdeliel to be present: she would not receive Sunalanthaid as if he were an emissary from another House. Only Aradreleg Lightsister was present—more proof that Vieliessar feared nothing from the Sanctuary.

She had dressed her private chamber as carefully as she had dressed her body: it held her chair of rank and no other place to sit. The sideboard held wine instead of a tea brazier, and the tapestries upon the walls depicted great feats of Oronviel’s past. Beside her chair stood a table littered with scrolls and parchments—nothing Sunalanthaid could not be allowed to see, and all underscoring the truth she wished him to bear witness to: she was not Vieliessar Lightsister, but War Prince Vieliessar Oronviel.

“Lightbrother,” she said, as one of her castel guard opened the door to usher in her guest, “I trust you had a safe journey?” She stroked Striker’s long head; it was a tiny clemency from a future grown tangled and dark that the companion of Gunedwaen’s long exile had survived to enjoy a pampered old age. She watched as confusion played across Sunalanthaid’s face: he wished to argue with her—with the very
fact
of her—but could not decide how to begin.

It is a pity Hamphuliadiel did not send a messenger with more cleverness. Perhaps he could not find someone who was both clever and loyal.

“I am here to command your return to the Sanctuary of the Star,” Sunalanthaid said at last.

“No,” Vieliessar answered. “May I offer you a night’s rest beneath my roof before you begin your return journey? Or will you wish to leave at once?”

Sunalanthaid gaped at her for a moment. Those with power—even the reflected power of the Astromancer’s lackey—became accustomed to agreement and obedience where they had earned neither. “You can’t say that!” he finally managed to sputter.

“Within the walls of my own keep, I can say what I wish,” she answered. “I am War Prince of Oronviel by right of challenge.”

“You are not,” Sunalanthaid said, sounding plaintive. He turned toward Aradreleg. “She is a fugitive from the Sanctuary. Hamphuliadiel demands her return. At once!”

“Then let the Astromancer send his vast armies to take her,” Aradreleg said, glancing toward Vieliessar for consent before she spoke. “But first, let him say why he seeks to claim a prince of the Hundred Houses.”

“She has broken the Covenant. Her Light is forfeit,” Sunalanthaid said at last.

“Bring your witnesses to that charge, Sunalanthaid of Haldil, as I will answer them,” Vieliessar replied. Naming his House instead of using his title was rudeness, but she meant it to serve as a reminder she was no longer the Sanctuary’s servant—in any fashion. “Farcarinon was taken from me before my birth, and everyone thought I would be content to be so disparaged. But Oronviel is now mine, and I will rule over it as did Ternas Lightbrother over House Celebros in the days of Timirmar Astromancer.”

For a moment, she thought Sunalanthaid might ask her if she was telling the truth. Then his mouth firmed into a hard line. “You face serious accusations, Lightborn,” he repeated.

Vieliessar leaned forward in her chair. “Say this to Hamphuliadiel: I know both law and custom better than he. Say also that if I had taken Oronviel by unnatural means, my Lightborn would have voided my domain, and they have not.”

“Eiron—” Sunalanthaid began.

“Would not pledge fealty to me,” Vieliessar interrupted. “For that cause I banished him and a handful of others. You have come here in error, Sunalanthaid Lightbrother. I am Vieliessar Lightsister no longer. Take that word to Hamphuliadiel Astromancer when you go—and while you are my guest, do not give me cause to seek recompense from Haldil for your actions. Now leave me. I grow tired of explaining to you what you should have learned in your Postulancy.”

Watching Sunalanthaid’s openmouthed confusion, she knew for truth what she had only suspected: he had come to Oronviel believing Hamphuliadiel’s demands would be met with ready capitulation from the nobles and Lightborn of Oronviel. Perhaps he had thought to find Thoromarth ruling on her behalf, or to find her a prisoner, or to find Oronviel in open rebellion against her rule.

He had not.

“I will— I will—”

“You are tired from your journey. I would not have you set forth in such a state. Aradreleg Lightsister will conduct you to the rooms I have prepared for you.”

Aradreleg stepped toward him, and Sunalanthaid hesitantly turned to accompany her. Vieliessar could feel his confusion clearly—she would not seek to know more, not while Sunalanthaid hoped to discover her using spells to rule—and she might have pitied him, were he not so blatantly her enemy.

“Yet there is one thing I must require of you first.” Both Lightborn stopped at the sound of Vieliessar’s voice. “I am War Prince of Oronviel. You will give me the courtesy of my rank, or your stay here will be exceedingly brief.”

For a moment she thought he would refuse. But the Sanctuary was far away, and Vieliessar looked nothing like the self-effacing Lightsister who had endured Hamphuliadiel’s rebukes and punishments for so very long.

“My lord— My lady— Lord Vieliessar—” Sunalanthaid stammered. “I— Yes.”

Vieliessar raised a hand in dismissal. She took up a scroll from the table beside her, pretending to study it until she heard the door close behind them.

*   *   *

Rallying the people to her with the truth—a
kind
of truth, anyway, for she did not expect peace immediately upon her accession to the Unicorn Throne—was only one part of her strategy. Another was to rule over the land as if it were already hers.

The Great Keeps of the War Princes stood in the center of the lands they claimed. It was only sensible: such a placement would put their greatest stronghold far from their disputed borders. Even if the changing fortunes of a House had moved its borders so its keep lay nearer to one border or another, the farther one went from the Great Keep, the less settled was the land and the smaller the farms. More of the land lay under great Flower Forests or simple woodlands, until on the borders of the domain one reached the watchtowers and border keeps. These were large and heavily fortified, held by great lords who were nearly princes themselves. They kept vast meisnes of
komen,
and when the enemy rode across a domain’s border, it was the lords of the border keeps who first rode out against them.

But the border lords did not ride out against anything but a troop of enemy knights. It was considered dishonorable to ride to battle in disguise, and so they would go in bright silks and gleaming armor. Their passage could be seen for a great distance.

The raiders who preyed upon the outlying farms had neither bright silks nor gleaming armor, and well knew the value of concealment.

From Rade to Frost, Vieliessar met with the lords of all of her border keeps. To all of them she gave new orders: to ride to the aid of the border farmsteads when they were attacked. Many of her border lords were indignant at these commands, for they considered the border steadings to be there for little reason other than to provide sport for raiding parties from either side of the border. Vieliessar had removed some lords from their appointments and made it clear to all who remained that there would be no raiding, no brigandage, no “sport” in Oronviel.

When the border lords saw that her army patrolled as well—and saw what diversion there was in hunting brigands—Oronviel became a place of peace, not of raids and night terrors, until the pennion of Oronviel, with its red otter on a white field, brought the Farmfolk of Araphant, Ivrithir, and Laeldor—and Caerthalien and Aramenthiali as well—running to their dooryards to greet the patrols; to offer cider, bread, or honeycomb; to ask for aid.

Rithdeliel had sworn her plan would never work. Vieliessar had known it would. The
komen
might be proud and arrogant, but they were not immune to the experience of being greeted by the countryfolk with unfeigned pleasure and honest warmth, rather than with cold suspicion and grudging cooperation.

By Frost Moon, the land Oronviel controlled was twice again what it had been in Harvest, for once her treaty was made with Ivrithir, Vieliessar’s knights rode its bounds just as they had ridden hers. Ivrithir’s knights were no more immune to the astonishing experience of being welcomed by the Farmfolk than their brothers and sisters of Oronviel had been, and word of the alliance had run ahead of them, so the people of the borders greeted the pennion bearing Ivrithir’s tawny bear with as much enthusiasm as they’d greeted the red otter.

*   *   *

Hearth Moon became Frost Moon, and each day that did not bring word of armies marching toward Oronviel’s borders seemed to Vieliessar like a reprieve. There was much to do to in order to turn the impossible to the improbable. Candlemark by candlemark she lived with the temptation to change her course to one that wouldn’t seem so much like madness. There was still time to compose a document explaining how she had discovered the meaning behind
The Song of Amrethion
—she still had the scrap of the scroll Celelioniel had written—to ask openly for the help of the Hundred Houses against the Darkness.

No one would believe her. No matter what she did, her fellow War Princes would seek for the hidden motive, the trap, the betrayal. And even if they did not, they would still squabble over who should be War King over the combined army of the Hundred Houses just as they now battled over who was to be High King.

There is no time for that. They will not listen to argument. Only to armies.

I must have Mangiralas. Not for its destriers, but for its palfreys. If I can build an infantry, I must still get it to the battlefield. And Daroldan—not their neutrality this time, but War Prince Damulothir’s promise to support Oronviel. I will need him to demand aid of Caerthalien so she does not take the field against me before I am ready.

Mangiralas, Daroldan, Caerthalien, Ivrithir, Oronviel … a thousand threads from which she must weave her future.