Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (38 page)

“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

To discover how the Elfling had managed to escape into death in the heart of the World Without Sun became King Virulan’s obsession. He gave Uralesse command of the Dark Guard and sent it forth to hunt—this time not for sport nor for food, but for knowledge.

First Uralesse scoured the Goldengrass, and found it empty from the Winnowing Sea in the east to the shores of Graythunder Glairyrill. West of the Glairyrill, he found those creatures he was accustomed to find: Centaur and Minotaur, Bearward and Faun, Hippogriff and Aesalion and Gryphon. All of these were of the Silver, and to each of them had been given some spark of Light. Many of them had fanned that spark into magic, though no sorcery they possessed was so much as a guttering ember by comparison to that with which
He Who Is
had blessed His most glorious creation. The merest touch of the Endarkened had always been enough to drain their power to nothing.

Uralesse went next to the cities and great castels of the Teeth of the Moon, and found them deserted, crumbling away to dust.

There were no answers there. And so he sought his answers in the only place that remained.

*   *   *

The Elfling died in silence. Every scream, every whimper, every tear had been taken from him during the moonturns of his agony. Uralesse gazed into the sightless eyes, already clouding in death.

He was no closer to an answer.

He had discovered the silver cord that linked the Elven spellcrafters to the source of their power. He had traced that cord back to its wellspring, summoned Lesser Endarkened to the World Above and drove them with whips and threats into each one. Sometimes the Lesser Endarkened died. Sometimes the Flower Forest died. Uralesse was no closer to the answer King Virulan had demanded of him. That the Elflings wielded any magic at all was nothing more than a mockery of the Endarkened. Once the Elflings had possessed no magic. Then they did.