Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (54 page)

She hoped they would be enough.

The press of the fighting was so heavy no messenger could reach her to tell her what had happened. When Mangiralas next signaled, she was so dazed with fatigue that at first all she could think was that she’d failed, that Mangiralas was signaling for a parley-halt to discuss the terms of her surrender. But as the call repeated over and over again, she finally made sense of it.

They’re retreating.

We’ve won.

*   *   *

As they rode back to the camp, she saw the bodies of those who died defending the camp—and attacking it.

Horses—some dead, some panting pitifully as they lay dying from an archer’s arrow. Knights dead of sword cuts, or crushed beneath a horse, or battered to death by a destrier’s hooves.

And among them, bodies that were not clad in bright armor.

“Ah … no,” Vieliessar said, sighing. The infantry were to have retreated once they’d taken their toll of Mangiralas’s knights. But some had not. They’d stayed, continuing to loose their deadly arrows at the enemy as the moments in which they could escape trickled away. Then, even when their arrows were gone, they had not run, for Vieliessar saw none clad in the chain mail and surcoat of infantry who had died with their back to the enemy.

“All honor to them,” Orannet said quietly.

“All honor,” Vieliessar echoed.

When she reached it, she saw that her camp was untouched.

CHAPTER TWELVE

AN EMPIRE BOUGHT WITH MAGIC

Houses rise from Low to High, fall from High to Low, flee into the East, or are born from ambition and the fires of war. And whether a thing of scant centuries or able to boast a founding lost in the shadows of the fall of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor, every one is the whole. If all the Hundred Houses save one were to vanish like mist in morning sun, nothing would be lost, so long as one House survived.

—A History of the Hundred Houses

“You’ve looked better,” Nadalforo said, walking into Vieliessar’s pavilion.

“I’ve been on the field for three days,” Vieliessar answered. “They killed my horse. Three times,” she clarified. She was so tired she was light-headed.

Nadalforo picked up the pitcher on the table and sniffed at it to check its contents, then poured Vieliessar a cup of watered beer. “Drink this,” she said. “It must have been some horse, but never mind. You have thousands to choose from now. You could even ride Aranviorch into battle, but I don’t advise it.”

Vieliessar started to giggle with relief and exhaustion, then covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself. “You got him? Them? All of them?” she asked. Beer was better than water when one had been laboring long and hard in the hot sun, but even diluted, it made her giddy.

“We got Aranviorch out of his keep—not that hard, once you’re inside they think you belong there—and your Lightborn got everything with hooves within fifty miles of the keep. Aranviorch is here somewhere. The horses are heading for Ivrithir. I hope you trust Atholfol.”

“Yes. We won.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, your lords will think you didn’t intend to,” Nadalforo advised. “Now I’m going to bed. The only time I’ve been out of the saddle in the last ten days was when we were breaking into the keep.”

“Go,” Vieliessar said. “And Nadalforo … thank you.”

“I am your sworn vassal,” Nadalforo said, bowing.

*   *   *

It had been an outrageous gamble, but the only true way of winning not merely a battle, but a war. Aranviorch wished to fight far from his Great Keep to protect his herds, for they were the wealth and power of Mangiralas. It didn’t matter how many of his nobles Vieliessar slew or captured if she did not have the War Prince himself. And he could easily gain allies against her if he used his herds to bargain with.

So Vieliessar had conceived a double trap. She’d sent nearly all her Lightborn to bespell—and steal—every single animal Aranviorch owned. And she’d sent her former mercenaries to take his keep and bring him to her. Doing that had left her with barely enough Lightborn to keep those seriously wounded in battle from dying—and not enough to Heal the less badly injured so they could fight again the next day.

But I have Mangiralas’s Lightborn now,
she thought.
And I have Mangiralas.

Victory left her—as she thought it always would—mourning those who had died so she could gain it. She could not say the cost was too high. But it saddened her. She sent Harwing Lightbrother to the Mangiralas camp to summon Ladyholder Faurilduin to make her formal surrender. Harwing had never done envoy work before, and he was so nervous that Aradreleg finally wrote out for him what he must say. He regarded the sheet of vellum owlishly before nodding and saying he would say it off just as it was written. He walked into the center pole of the pavilion as he was leaving, and then simply fled.

“Will your Storysingers include that, when they make their songs of this day?” Aradreleg asked, trying hard not to laugh.

“I don’t think they’d believe it,” Vieliessar said gravely. “Oh, and now I must go and see War Prince Aranviorch.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

“No,” Aradreleg corrected. “First you will bathe—you smell like a wet horse—and then you will eat, and then I will find Brinnie and see if
she
knows the location of the chest with your gowns and second-best jewels. Then you will dress, and
then
you will have War Prince Aranviorch brought to you.”

*   *   *

“Where is my son?” Aranviorch demanded the moment he was brought into Vieliessar’s pavilion. “Prince Gatriadde—where is he?”

“Why do you think I have him?” Vieliessar answered, just as bluntly.

“Because he was taken from the keep when I was. I want him brought here at once!”

“Ah.” That answered one question that had been puzzling her—why Mangiralas had left the field in the middle of the battle, without her needing to demand a parley-halt to tell them she held the War Prince. Nadalforo must have taken Gatriadde as well as Aranviorch in order to have as a messenger someone whose word Ladyholder Faurilduin—or those in her camp—would believe. “Perhaps his mother will bring him, for I have sent for her. But you and I have unfinished business, Lord Aranviorch. I mean to have Mangiralas and your oath. Give them to me.”

“And if I do not?” Aranviorch said.

“Then you will die, and your wife will die, and your son will die, and I shall go to your keep and take it a second time, and slay all who will not swear to me. And if your army wishes to go to war with me, then it must do so afoot, for I have taken from you all the horses which are your great wealth, and they are mine already.”

“Why?” Aranviorch roared. “Mangiralas has done nothing to you!”

“Mangiralas did not surrender when I required it,” Vieliessar answered bleakly.

Ladyholder Faurilduin and Prince Gatriadde arrived within the candlemark, accompanied by Harwing Lightbrother and Camaibien Lightbrother. Vieliessar was shocked and saddened by how young the prince—now the Heir-Prince, as he must know—was, and remembered again that he and Princess Maerengiel had been of one birth.

“So you have won,” Ladyholder Faurilduin said bleakly, looking from Vieliessar to Aranviorch.

“I have,” Vieliessar said. “And now I take fealty of your husband. But not of you. Not yet. Did Camaibien give my words to you?”

“As you said them,” Lady Faurilduin said, her voice unyielding. “You did not abide by the Code of Battle!” she said accusingly.

“And yet, your knights who rode to my lines in surrender were returned to you.” Those who could still ride had been sent back to Mangiralas on palfreys after the end of each day’s battle. Those who were too badly wounded to ride had been carried onto the field on litters and left for Mangiralas to retrieve.

“You would have held them to ransom if you’d possessed Lightborn enough to Heal them,” Lady Faurilduin said accusingly.

“War is not a game,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Nor will I treat it as a game. When I have searched your camp and satisfied myself, then will I take your oath, if you will give it.”

“Never,” Lady Faurilduin said flatly.

“Faurilduin!” Aranviorch cried.

“Husband, you must do what is best for our lands. But Maerengiel has gone to ride with the Silver Hooves—slain by the cowardly weapons Lord Vieliessar sees fit to bring to the field of honor—and I will not live in a world forged upon the anvil of her devising.”

“Do not—!” Aranviorch said, and his plea was to Vieliessar, not to his wife.

“She may die with honor,” Vieliessar said, “but if she will not swear to me, she will die. And I will not take her oath until I know any of my people she took prisoner are well, for I swore to her that if she caused the deaths of any who lay helpless in her hands, she would die.”

“Then … Gatriadde, Mangiralas is yours now. Guard her well,” Aranviorch said.

“Father!” Prince Gatriadde said, horrified.

“I know you did not look for this,” Aranviorch said with dignity, “but we cannot choose our fates. Only the Silver Hooves may do that.”

“Is that your last word to me?” Vieliessar asked. Aranviorch inclined his head. Faurilduin ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. “Then let a Circle be made for Aranviorch’s death. Gatriadde, will you renounce your claim to the Unicorn Throne and swear yourself to be my loyal vassal?”

“I—I—I wasn’t supposed to be War Prince!” Gatriadde said. “It was Maeren! How can you— You
can’t
, Lord Vieliessar—the Horse Fair is next year, and—”

“Be silent, Gatri,” Lady Faurilduin said quietly. “Your father, your sister, and I are dead and Mangiralas is yours. You are of good stock. Trust in your breeding.” She turned away as if Gatriadde no longer existed.

Vieliessar watched Prince Gatriadde as her guards led Lord Aranviorch and Lady Faurilduin to the place they would await their executions, knowing as she did that she had her answer: Faurilduin had let prisoners in her hands die. The prince took a deep breath. “You must tell me Oronviel’s terms, Lord Vieliessar,” he said with painful dignity. “I did not expect to be War Prince.”

She repeated what she had said before—vassalage and renunciation of his claim upon the Throne. She did not detail the law to which Mangiralas would now be bound, for Gatriadde would be oathbound to do all she asked of him, and she did not think he could remember her words from one moment to the next just now.

“But the horses?” he said desperately. “You won’t hurt them, or—or take them away, or—”

“The horses of Mangiralas will be in your care,” she said, holding up her hand. She meant to strip Mangiralas of all it held, but not to destroy it.

“Yes. All right. All right. I’ll swear. I’ll do whatever you ask. But I don’t—I don’t—”

Patiently, Vieliessar took Gatriadde through the phrases of the oath, then had Aradreleg set the spell so he could swear. She had to prompt him several times, and when it was over, he burst into tears.

“There, young lord, hush,” Camaibien said, going to him and taking the new War Prince in his arms. “It’s done and you’ll take no more hurt of it. The Silver Hooves have chosen to give Mangiralas into Oronviel’s care, and we must trust in Them, for do They not ride horses more glorious than any we can dream of breeding? Just so. As horse and rider promise to keep one another safe, so shall Mangiralas and Oronviel keep one another now.”

“Yes, I—yes. That is so,” Gatriadde said. “I may keep him, can’t I?” he said in sudden fear, turning to Vieliessar.

“If it is his wish to remain with you, I will not take him from you,” Vieliessar said, speaking gently, as to a child. Gatriadde was barely more than a boy, and even if he were to have become War Prince, it should not have been for many centuries. “But I shall need him to return to your camp now and bring to me the Lightborn of Mangiralas, for I have need of them.”

“I’ll go with him,” Gatriadde said. “I should. I’m War Prince now.”

“Yes,” Vieliessar said. “If you please, go with Lord Gunedwaen to our horselines, and you may choose palfreys to bear you.”

Gatriadde nodded jerkily. Gunedwaen stepped to the door of the tent and gestured for the new War Prince to precede him. Camaibien moved to follow, but Vieliessar rose to her feet, gesturing to him to approach her.

“If you take two candlemarks to return my prisoners and bring your Lightborn to me, his parents will be dead by the time he returns,” she said quietly. “He need only see their bodies on the pyre.”

“If you had showed such honor in war as you do in victory, my young lord would not be forced to a task so far beyond his skill,” Camaibien said sorrowfully.

“I will not leave your young lord undefended,” Vieliessar answered. “My word to you.”

*   *   *

There was rejoicing in the camp the evening of the victory, for not only had Vieliessar won, but Princess Nothrediel and Prince Monbrauel were among those prisoners returned by Mangiralas. If the war had continued many more days, Thoromarth would have lost two more of his children, for while Lady Faurilduin had not executed any of the prisoners she had taken, neither had she allowed their injuries to be Healed by Lightborn, and about a third of those she had captured had died.

Bethaerian was among the dead.

I should not care more for her life because she was known to me.

Vieliessar left her victory feast early, for she felt an uneasiness in her mind which she would not impart to her commanders. She passed her sentries and walked out among the pyres. Here the War Prince of Mangiralas and his lady. There, the Heir-Princess of Mangiralas. Bethaerian. Virry. Janondiel. She might count until the sun rose and not number all her dead.

“It is not a light thing if you were not raised to it.”

Vieliessar glanced back. Nadalforo had followed her from the camp and now stood watching her.

“It should not be a light thing even so,” Vieliessar answered, and Nadalforo shrugged.

“It is war,” she said. “In war, some die.”

“Why do we fight?” Vieliessar asked. Impulse, but also the question that had burned in her even before she ever accepted her destiny.