Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (37 page)

What she had said was truth, but she would not tell Ambrant the whole. Not yet. It was a heavy weight, and she would place it upon as few as she could.
Hamphuliadiel believes in the Prophecy and for that reason he acts out of fear and arrogance.

“That— It is an ill thing to hear of the Guardian of the Shrine, but it comforts me,” Ambrant answered. “Only let his madness be overthrown.”

“It will be,” Vieliessar said with grim honesty.

*   *   *

The road to peace would be long and edged with swords, and led as readily to death and failure as it did to the glorious end Oronviel’s new War Prince dreamed of. Half her plans were utter madness; the other half, so cunning they chilled the marrow. Thoromarth had known since the day she spared his life that the game she played was deep and secret. He had not known how deep until he rode to the Sanctuary of the Star.

But once he was alone in his own rooms in Oronviel Keep, fed and bathed and wrapped in a chamber robe, his armor taken away to be cleaned, Thoromarth was too restless to sleep. He summoned a servant to bear away the debris of the meal and bring wine, and sat, cup in hand, gazing into the flames dancing upon the coals of the stove.

What did he want? Not now, nor even a moonturn from now, but before he went to ride the night winds? He did not want power—at least, not in the way Bolecthindial or Manderechiel did. His new rooms were spacious enough, he could throw his boots at his servants and be certain his wishes would be followed, and he could go from his morning meal to the stables unhindered to spend a day with his beloved horses. What more could a lord of the Fortunate Lands desire? It had been his duty to rule Oronviel, and so he had, just as it had been his duty to marry Daustifalal.

Thoromarth set down his cup, got to his feet, and began to pace.
You’ve taken an illness from all that time wallowing in the mud. Send for a Lightborn to clear your head. You are going to war, and you will die in battle, and you will ride with the Hunt until the stars grow cold.

When he turned about at the end of the room, Vieliessar was standing in the doorway.

The overtunic and undertunic and underskirts she wore—each layer slashed and parted to show the contrasting fabric beneath—were as decorous and correct as anything his wife or mother might have worn. She was decked with the jewels of her rank and those of a War Prince, heavy rings, bracelets, and linked collar. The veil upon her hair, held in place by a thin band of gold, hung to her waist; the heavy silk swaying with her movements. But somehow no amount of finery could erase his clearest image of her: muddy and bruised and dangerous as a drawn sword, standing before him and demanding he yield everything he was to her.

“My lord,” he said, “your message must have gone astray—” He could only imagine he’d been bidden to attend her, and when he had not appeared, she’d come looking for him.

“I sent no message,” she answered. “May I enter? I wished to see you before you slept. You must be weary. Ambrant looked as if he might collapse at any moment.”

“It was a hard journey,” Thoromarth said curtly, gesturing for her to enter.

“And you do not know—still—what prompted me to such foolishness. Did Ambrant tell you of the Astromancer’s decision?”

“That he will not step down and that I must ask you for the rest. My lord, the plots of the Hundred Houses are enough—I do not wish to know the intrigues the Green Robes may have.”

“And yet you must,” Lord Vieliessar answered, seating herself, “for it concerns Oronviel most of all. Sit.”

He would have been happier, Thoromarth decided when she had finished the tale, never to know these things at all, though in the end it was as simple a matter as a border war between Ullilion and Caerthalien. The Chief Astromancer intrigued to make himself a power in the land. Lord Vieliessar feared Oronviel would become culpable for his deeds in the eyes of the Hundred Houses. She had taken steps to make it seem she and the Astromancer plotted together, and so avert attack upon Oronviel before she was ready to move.

“I thank you for this word to me,” Thoromarth said.

Unexpectedly, she laughed. It was neither bitter nor mocking, but full, and bright, and joyous.

“No you do not, Lord Thoromarth! You wish I had never come to trouble you and fill your head with a thousand unthinkable things you must think about! Now you wonder what I will do next, and hope you do not know. But I have troubled your rest enough. And so I leave you in peace.”

She got to her feet in a swish of silk, and before he could rise in deference, was out the door and gone. And suddenly Thoromarth hoped the Silver Hooves would grant him years enough to see Lord Vieliessar upon the Unicorn Throne, for he yearned to hear the squalls and protests of his fellow princes as she made a Code of Peace like the Code of Battle and held every soul in the land to its observance, whether they were of high birth or low

Peace! Your reign brings a thousand gifts, Lord Vieliessar, but peace is not among them.

*   *   *

Lord Bolecthindial unrolled the map Lengiathion Warlord had prepared and spread it flat against the surface of his table. The drawing was so careful and detailed it might almost have been the thing itself, seen as a hawk upon the wing would see it. The map showed Caerthalien and the western lands as far as the Sanctuary. Ullilion’s defenses were painted in purple and saffron, Caerthalien’s in gold and green, Cirandeiron’s in blue and silver. The ruins of Farcarinon’s border keeps were sketched in a dull grey.

In War Season, Caerthalien rode to war. Other Houses might refrain from sending challenges with their Midwinter envoys, might spend the summer moonturns battling the Beastlings—as did Daroldan or the domains of the East—or in hunting outlaws or putting down rebellion among their own lords, seeking to grow wealthy and strong by avoiding battle.

Not Caerthalien. Caerthalien rode to war. Even last year, when Runacarendalur had led Caerthalien’s meisne against the Free Companies, Bolecthindial and his other sons had taken the field against their enemies. Each successful campaign brought wealth, and sometimes land, and often surrender-pledges from its defeated enemies. Among the twelve High Houses, only three had ever rivaled Caerthalien in wealth and power: Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, and Farcarinon.

Farcarinon was gone, and this season Lord Bolecthindial meant to take Ullilion from Cirandeiron. War Prince Dendinirchiel Ullilion held the southern border of Farcarinon, and Dendinirchiel looked to Cirandeiron. But between Ullilion and Cirandeiron lay the vast wilderness of Farcarinon. To come to Ullilion’s aid, Lord Girelrian would have to cross the whole of Farcarinon. It would give Caerthalien the advantage.

And why should it not give us more than that? Farcarinon has lain fallow for a century. It is time for the true spoils of victory to be apportioned.

If Caerthalien could force Ullilion to cede enough territory, Ullilion’s only recourse would be to expand her borders west and claim Farcarinon land. Censure for the act of claiming a part of Lost Farcarinon would fall on Dendinirchiel’s head, not Bolecthindial’s—and each season he could force Ullilion farther west, claiming always that he seized Ullilion lands, and not Farcarinon’s.

And if the sight of Ullilion’s example made High Houses agree it was a ruinous danger to leave so great an area of land unclaimed, Caerthalien would benefit twice over, for by the agreement the Grand Alliance had made in Serenthon’s time, Caerthalien could claim the third part of Farcarinon if it were claimed at all.

He turned to the report Elrinonion Swordmaster had prepared for him. Bolecthindial had little patience with sneaking about in the kitchens of his enemies, hoping someone would drop a word of their plans, but as Glorthiachiel was overfond of reminding him, if the enemy came to the field armored and weaponed, one did not bear away the victory by meeting them unarmed.

He prepared to unroll Elrinonion’s scroll, then reached for his wine instead. Inevitably it would be more of what he had heard at the beginning of Storm, and at the middle of Storm, and at the beginning of Rain. It was further inevitable that Glorthiachiel knew it already.

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.