Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (50 page)

“I had thought to withstand a siege and so save my honor,” Ablenariel answered, his voice weary.

“Be silent!” Ladyholder Gemmaire cried. “If you must die, do not shame us in your death!”

Her words seemed to have some effect, though undoubtedly not the effect she had hoped for. Ablenariel pulled himself upright and faced Vieliessar squarely.

“You have wondered, perhaps, why I did not meet you on the field, when you sent an envoy to challenge me,” he said. “You have wondered why I did not send your envoy back to you to offer parley.”

Vieliessar nodded slowly. No answer he could make would change his fate, for she could not trust him, and she could not hold Araphant if she pardoned him. But she would not deny him his last words.

“I could not,” he said, and now anger lent strength to his voice. “I could not! I summoned my levy knights—my lords—my great meisne—and
they did not come
!”

There was a long moment of silence, and then someone in the hall laughed.

“Silence!” Vieliessar shouted. “Is betrayal a cause for laughter?”

“But they took your side, Lord Vieliessar!” The hall was dark, for the Lightborn had not come to fill it with Silverlight, and she could not see who spoke.

“Each swordblade has two edges,” she said. “If the nobles of Laeldor have taken my side, then I shall be pleased to accept their fealty. But in doing so, they have betrayed their sworn lord, and that is a sad thing.” She returned her attention to Ablenariel. “My lord, how will you die?” she asked again.

“I would die at your hands, Lord Vieliessar,” Lord Ablenariel said. “It is how I should have died.” He knelt stiffly, made awkward by the weight of the chain that bound his hands, and gazed up at her.

“A sword,” Vieliessar said, getting to her feet.

It took an awkward time to bring one, for no one in the Great Hall had come armed to the victory feast, and when Avedana arrived at last, the sword the arming page carried was not Vieliessar’s. The quillons were wrought of gold and ornamented with moonstones, white sapphires, and diamonds as clear and bright as winter moonlight. The pommel stone was made of two half-spheres of clear crystal, and between them was laid a thin leaf of moonsilver cut into the shape of a rearing Unicorn, its detail as elaborate and delicate as lace. But it was the hilt itself that was the true marvel, for it was a soft, iridescent white, as if it were made of shell-nacre. It had a twisted spiral to its shape to provide a firm grip for the hand that held it, but it seemed, when she took it, that it was no carving of stone or shell or ivory, but a thing placed upon the sword hilt nearly as it had grown.

It was Ablenariel’s sword. Vieliessar knew this the moment she saw it.

“I shall carry this blade always,” Vieliessar told him, taking it up. “In memory of loyalty—and betrayal.”

Lord Ablenariel bowed his head, saying nothing. And she struck.

“Alas, you have spoiled your gown,” Ladyholder Gemmaire said into the silence that followed. “But perhaps you do not care for fine things.”

“I know that you do not,” Vieliessar answered, handing the sword back to Avedana, “for you have spoiled something finer than any jewels you own.” She did not step back, but forward, and her long skirts trailed through the spreading pool of blood. “Tell me, Lady-Abeyant Gemmaire, do you swear fealty to me?” she asked, her voice soft and cold.

“My husband is dead. I demand to be returned to my father’s house,” Gemmaire said. Her eyes flickered from side to side as she sought allies, and for the first time, there was fear in her voice.

“Your father’s house lies in Caerthalien, does it not?” Vieliessar asked. She knew it did. Everyone here knew it did. The pedigrees and marriage-alliances of the War Princes were as well known as the bloodlines of a favored horse or hound.

Servants had come to roll Lord Ablenariel’s body into a cloth to carry it out and to sprinkle sand over the blood on the floor. Vieliessar stepped past them and resumed her chair.

“My father is Lord Mordrogen, brother to Lord Bolecthindial,” Lady-Abeyant Gemmaire answered.

“Then I see no reason to deprive Caerthalien of your presence. Lord Rithdeliel, assist Aradreleg to remove the lady’s chains. You may go.”

Rithdeliel stepped forward, a thousand questions on his face, but he held his tongue as Aradreleg reached out to touch the shackles. Lady Gemmaire shook the manacles from her wrists, lifted her chin, and turned away from Vieliessar, moving toward the archway that led into the keep. Vieliessar raised her hand, and Rithdeliel stepped forward to take the Lady’s arm, halting her.

“You said I could go to Caerthalien!” Gemmaire said, turning back to face Vieliessar.

“So I did,” Vieliessar said. “Lord Rithdeliel will conduct you to the horselines and have a palfrey saddled for you, and I shall provide you a warm cloak, for the night is cool.”

“I have cloaks and palfreys of my own!” Ladyholder Gemmaire said. “What of my servants, my jewels, my clothes, my—”

“Everything that was yours is now mine,” Vieliessar said. “I give you your life. And a horse. And a cloak. It is only a few days’ ride to the border. Ask for hospitality along your way, and you may receive it. I shall order a safe-conduct sealed for you, so all whom you meet know you ride free by my will. I am sure you would find it inconvenient to be taken prisoner and returned here.”

Gemmaire looked around again seeking someone who would take her part. At last she stepped away from Rithdeliel, shaking her skirts out as if the touch of his hand had soiled her, and began to walk toward the outer doors. There was a moment of even more profound silence, as if everyone there awaited some defiant words from her, but none came.

“Now, Prince Avirnesse, will you swear fealty to me? Or will you die?” Vieliessar asked, turning to the next prisoner.

*   *   *

“I always find a few executions sets a tone for a banquet,” Thoromarth said, pouring wine into two goblets.

“I am surprised you have managed to stay awake through any of mine, in that case,” Vieliessar answered tartly.

Executions were something any castel’s servants knew how to deal with. Some were bringing out tables even while other were clearing the bodies away, and soon after that the first dishes were carried in, just as if Laeldor Keep hadn’t fallen that day.

“Ah, my lord, in your case it’s never been the executions as much as the possibility of being executed by your many enemies that lent spice to your banquets,” Thoromarth said blandly. “Here. Drink. We won today, you know. Drink. Or everyone watching will think we have lost and that they’re to be dead by morning.”

Vieliessar sipped her wine. She’d never managed to get used to the taste—wine was either thin and sour or thick and over-sweet.
You won’t be dead by morning. But
I
might be,
she thought grimly. It had not escaped her notice that Aradreleg had vanished once there was no more need for her Magery. Lightborn were often absent from victory banquets, performing Healings, but most of Oronviel had not even drawn sword today. There was not so much work for the Lightborn that they could not have been here, if they had chosen to be. Aradreleg certainly. Ambrant, perhaps—
Komen
Mathoriel was his mother, one of Vieliessar’s commanders, and Mathoriel was here.

Ambrant, if the Lightborn gather to speak of what I have done here this day, be my voice, and say to them all I have said to you. For what I have said must be. I can see no way to avoid it—no
komen
leaves his sharpest sword in the armory.

But there was nothing Vieliessar could do now to change what would be. And thinking of swords only made her think of Lord Ablenariel’s sword, and of his death. So she drank wine, and did her best to present an untroubled face to her commanders, as if this had truly been a day of triumph and joy.

*   *   *

Caerthalien ran and left behind / Bread and meat and silk and wine / Horses, hawks, and huntsmen bold / Chains of silver and chains of gold / Swords of price and armor bright / Left behind there in the night / Caerthalien ran and left behind …

It was late, and the wine had gone around many times, but as much of the rowdiness from those present in the hall came as much from relief at finding themselves still alive as from wine. “Not bad,” Gunedwaen said, gesturing toward the Storysinger. “Almost accurate, too. For a change.”

“The comic songs usually have more truth to them than the everlasting praise-singing,” Rithdeliel said judiciously. “They’ll have to work to turn the conquest of Laeldor into something high and heroic, you know.”

As the Storysinger went on, the list of things Caerthalien left behind as it ran from Oronviel’s knights became more and more outrageous and unlikely. A bake-oven. Three hundred live chickens. A bedstead with a feather mattress and blankets.
Left behind, left behind, left behind …

“As long as they’re singing this nonsense, at least we don’t have to hear ‘The Conquest of Oronviel’ again,” Princess Nothrediel said. “I like a song where you know what’s going on. You can’t tell who you’re supposed to cheer for in that one.” She wrinkled her nose.

“You’re supposed to appreciate their artistry,” her brother pointed out, throwing a piece of bread at her. “They can’t exactly say Father is the blackest monster ever whelped and that Lord Vieliessar did us all a favor by conquering us. Since she didn’t execute him, it would be rude.”

“I appreciate the depth of feeling possessed by both my children,” Thoromarth said. “It occurs to me that our beloved lord and prince executed the wrong members of my family.”

“
I
swore fealty,” Prince Monbrauel said loftily. “And so did my annoying sister, here.”

“Oh, who cares who rules Oronviel, since it wouldn’t have been me,” Princess Nothrediel said. “We’re going to conquer Mangiralas next! Think of all the horses we can take as spoils of victory!” She leaned across her father and her brother. “When we take Mangiralas, you’ll let Father and me advise you on the horses, won’t you, Lord Vieliessar? Because I know Aranviorch Mangiralas will try to hide all the best bloodstock, and he knows a thousand ways to make a beast look better than it is—or worse!”

But Vieliessar wasn’t listening. She was staring across the hall, into the dimness, with an intent expression on her face. She saw the reflection of the blue-white nimbus on the wall a moment before the cloud of Silverlight drifted through the doorway. If Laeldor’s proper High Table had been here, she might have been able to see who came, but without it her angle of vision—even if she were to stand—was too low.

She waited.

A pool of silence seemed to grow outward from all those touched by the Silverlight, but even such a pool was not enough to quiet the cacophony of the hall. She knew someone was talking to her, trying to get her attention, but the words were meaningless. She only had eyes for the slow procession of the Lightborn.

At last the procession drew level with the high table. Now that Vieliessar could see who had come, her hands gripped each other beneath the fine white cloth and polished wood of the banquet table. Celeharth. It was Celeharth Lightbrother who came.

He did not have the strength to walk unaided. Ambrant supported him on one side, and on the other, a Lightborn Vieliessar did not recognize.

The hall fell silent by degrees. First Edyenias Storysinger stopped, so the singers stopped, and then those talking among themselves slowly fell silent, as if silence were the ripples from a stone dropped into a pond of still water.

“A chair,” Vieliessar said, and though she did not raise her voice, Nothrediel and Monbrauel rose to their feet, stepping back to the wall, and Thoromarth moved aside to leave two empty places beside her. Vieliessar stood as well, waiting, as with agonizing slowness the two Lightborn carried Celeharth to her. She had been one of the greatest Healers the Sanctuary had known in a thousand years, yet Vieliessar knew even she could not Heal Celeharth Lightbrother of that which ailed him.

Three things the Light cannot Heal: age, death, and fate.

At last those with him lowered Celeharth carefully into the chair beside her. His head lolled back against the high back of the chair and his legs splayed out as if he was a child’s doll, made of rags.

“You should have summoned me,” Vieliessar said, taking his hand. “I would have come.” His hand was icy in hers.

She did not expect an answer. She was not certain what she expected. But Celeharth drew a deep breath and lifted his head. “There are things … which must be done in the sight of all.” There were pauses between each word, as if they were heavy stones he must roll into hearing, and she could hear the rattle of his breath in his throat between each. “I saw … You broke … the seals and locks.”

“Yes,” Vieliessar said. She dared not look away from his face. She felt as if her gaze was the only thing that gave him the power to go on.

“Celelioniel.” The name seemed to take much of his strength. For a moment Vieliessar thought he would stop breathing. Each breath he took seemed to take all the life he had left. “Did you think … she was … the first? She was … my student.”

Celelioniel had been full of years when she was Astromancer. Celeharth was older still. Old enough to have been Celelioniel’s first teacher. Old enough to have set her feet upon the road that led to the unriddling of Amrethion Aradruiniel’s Curse.

Celeharth’s voice was harsh now, a terrible thing to hear, such a whisper as the dead might make if they were given voice. “Promise … The Covenant…”

“I will always honor and keep the Covenant,” she said. She spoke forcefully, not for the ears of any others here, but because she had the sense that Celeharth was going farther from her with every moment and so she must call out loudly so her voice might reach him.

“The rest does not matter,” he said. For a moment the sudden strength in his voice made her hope he would recover, that exacting her promise could Heal him where the Light could not. But then his eyes closed and his hand did not tighten on hers. Celeharth still breathed, but soon he would walk the Vale of Celenthodiel.