Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (55 page)

Nadalforo laughed, a short bark of laughter that held no mirth. “For land, for power, for advantage, for vengeance.
You
fight to become High King, but I do not know why.”

“To end this,” Vieliessar answered. “And because the day will come when we can no longer quarrel among ourselves.”

Vieliessar turned away, gazing out over the battlefield—the encampment of the dead.
I am lonely,
she realized in surprise. It had been years—decades—since she had been a servant in the Sanctuary, spending happy evenings in the Servants’ Hall or in the Common Room with friends. She had lost them one by one. She rubbed her hand over her face.

“Victory rides with the clever,” Nadalforo replied. “So far you have been clever enough.”

I have been lucky,
Vieliessar thought, turning back to gaze out over the pyres. “The Silver Hooves grant—” she began. She did not finish the sentence. Nadalforo had gone.

*   *   *

It was a moonturn and a half after the defeat of Mangiralas, but Vieliessar and her people had not stood idle. All across the West, rebellion had spread like wildfire, causing more folk to flock to her banner. Places had needed to be found for all, and this time the newcomers were not only the commonfolk of the Less Houses of the West, but their Lords
Komen
and great nobles as well. Where she could, Vieliessar had sent troops to support the Less Houses as they fought the High, but she hoped to avoid becoming embroiled in a drawn-out campaign in the west—and one with a score of commanders, all with different goals.

Nor had Vieliessar herself been idle, for there were other Western Houses whose fealty she must gain though they would never join her in battle. So she had gone to take promises of Amrolion and Daroldan, traveling to the Western Shore to do so.

Now it was time for the next step in her plan. She had always meant to take the Unicorn Throne with as little fighting as possible. Now she meant to cement her victory with retreat.

“We shall take Ullilion next,” Vieliessar said, indicating it on the map. “Then I shall divide the army.”

“Divide it?” Rithdeliel said. “Is that wise?”

“It is necessary,” Vieliessar answered. “One third shall go to Thoromarth, one third to Atholfol, and the third part to you, Rithdeliel. Thoromarth, you must ride against Tunimbronor, Vorogalast, and Sierdalant. These Less Houses are disputed between Aramenthiali and Vondaimieriel.”

“And neither one will appreciate me riding in to snatch them from their grasp,” Thoromarth said. “You should take Aramenthiali first, then those Less Houses.”

“If I had an army as great as Aramenthiali’s, I would do so gladly,” Vieliessar answered tartly. “But I do not. Yet you may not face as much opposition as you think. Vondaimieriel did not declare for Serenthon during his attempt to gain the High Kingship, but neither did she oppose him. And Finfemeras Vondaimieriel was similarly evasive when I sent to him at Midwinter.”

“Vondaimieriel’s got her back to the Mystrals,” Thoromarth pointed out. “Finfemeras is cautious. Vondaimieriel can’t afford to lose territory in war. She has no place to go.”

“There will be fighting all through that region,” Gunedwaen said. “Aramenthiali battles Vondaimieriel this season. Vorogalast and Sierdalant are in clientage to Aramenthiali; Tunimbronor to Vondaimieriel. I don’t suppose I need to mention that Caerthalien attacks Ullilion as well?”

“Then my task will be easier, for Ullilion will be embattled by two foes,” she said.

There was a moment of silence, then Thoromarth spoke. “It is not that I am not grateful to be given an army and a hopeless task,” he said, “but you speak of three elements to your army, and yet you claim none of them for yourself. Where will you be?”

“I shall buy us time,” Vieliessar answered.

But time could only be bought with information, and so after the meeting had drawn to a close, Vieliessar dismissed her commanders and retreated to the inner chamber of her pavilion to gain it.

One of the things that had bemused—and amused—Vieliessar once she became War Prince of Oronviel was her discovery of the portable spellkits (so called by the Lightless) the Lightborn used. It was true that to cast any of the spells she had learned within the Sanctuary, all that was needed was the power of a Flower Forest and a Mage’s own Light, but it was also true that many spells required a particular stillness or a period of cleansing meditation. Nearly all Lightborn meditated regularly, both to still their thoughts, and to take the opportunity to touch the Light without needing to use it.

In the Sanctuary, the elements necessary to ease a Lightborn’s path were available in every practice room and sleeping chamber. Outside the Sanctuary, Lightborn might be called to follow their masters on progress, on campaign, or simply to move from manor to manor. To be certain they had with them all they needed, they had evolved the custom of storing their favored items in a special case, which they brought with them wherever they went or were sent.

The one she now used had been Celeharth’s.

Made of ivory, it was covered in pebbled, iridescent, red-gold leather: gryphon skin. The hide had worn away at the corners of the box through centuries of handling, and the ivory, yellowed with age, showed through.

The hinges and the clasps were simple things, for any of the Lightborn could Seal a container so utterly it could not be opened by the Lightless, but they were beautifully wrought, of fine gold, in the fashion of feathers. The interior of the box was padded and had been shaped to hold its contents immobile: one fat and two narrow storage canisters, a small cordial bottle, a brazier, a teapot, and a teacup.

The pot and cup were of unadorned shin’zuruf—their beauty came from their exquisite shape and delicacy. The cordial bottle was much the same as any that might have been found within the Sanctuary, but made of white amber instead of the traditional crystal. It did not hold medicine but rather a flower cordial that could be mixed with water. The narrow canisters were of gold, their surfaces elaborately etched with the form of a dragon. One held charcoal disks, the other, Light-incense. The last was the traditional cherry-bark tea canister; this still held tea that Celeharth had blended with his own hands.

The tiny brazier was very old—older, Vieliessar thought, than Celeharth—and carved of cinnabar in the form of a coiling dragon holding a golden bowl in its claws. None of the histories she’d read mentioned dragons as living creatures—but then everything she’d read said unicorns didn’t exist, either, and she’d seen one. She wondered if dragons—assuming there were dragons—looked anything like the carving.

She made her preparations with quick efficiency, lighting the charcoal, measuring the tea, pouring water over it from the iron kettle. Once it had brewed, she sipped it slowly, relishing its subtle flavors as she willed her spirit to stillness. When the cup was empty, she spilled tiny grains of golden incense onto the burning charcoal and inhaled the familiar fragrant smoke.

She was ready.

Since the night she had sent him eastward to be her voice to the War Princes of the Grand Windsward, she had done her best to remain in touch with Thurion. There were more reasons than self-interest for her actions: the Lightborn of the Windsward Houses were certainly receiving news from the Houses that held them in clientage, and Thurion must be able to set her facts against his own.

Thurion? Thurion, are you there?

Every Lightborn experienced Farspeech differently. Hers showed her the place she ’Spoke to as if she stood there in flesh.

For a long moment there was no answer, no sense of another place forming its image behind her eyes, and the worry that Thurion might be lost or dead was almost enough to break her concentration.

Then: “Vielle? Oh, thank the Light! It has been so long since we have ’Spoken, and I have heard so many tales of you…”

She opened her inward eyes and an image slowly came into focus. He sat in a chamber that was clearly the accommodation of an honored guest—she could tell by the tapestries on the walls, the furnishings, the carpets upon the floors. But the windows were nothing more than narrow slits, instead of the ones she knew from the Great Keeps of Caerthalien, Oronviel, and Laeldor: wide open ones hung with shutters of fragrant wood or filled with designs in colored glass. It was clear from the openings in the walls that the walls were much thicker than they should be in any chamber meant to house anything but a prisoner. Thurion was an honored guest somewhere in the Grand Windsward, then, for the thick walls were meant to keep out more than the wind and its winter chill.

“I have been much occupied these last sennights, I fear,” she answered. “I took Mangiralas as I said I would. War Prince Gatriadde has sworn fealty to me.”

“Gatriadde?” Thurion’s mental voice blurted, “but—”

“All the rest of the Line Direct are dead,” she answered, knowing Thurion could feel the sorrow in her thoughts. “But after Mangiralas, I forged treaties with Amrolion and Daroldan while my army fought elsewhere. I hold much of the West. But what of you? When I last heard, you had reached Encherelimier to place your petition before Celelioniel’s own House.”

“And so I did,” Thurion answered; Vieliessar felt the exasperation in his voice. “It is hard to travel here—they set their castels far from the Flower Forests to preserve themselves from attack, so I could not go in person, but I Spoke to many, even Hallorad. And you may see what has come of my careful work!

“The Grand Windsward is at war. Some of the Twenty see only a second chance to free themselves from the High Houses, but some look farther than that—Vielle, you do not know what it is like to live here. There is never a time when one may know himself to be safe! I do not think there is a single boundary stone anywhere here, for it would be death to set them and the Beastlings would only remove them.”

“It is much like the Western Shore,” she answered softly. “There are no villages there, only great keeps of stone where all shelter, from lord to Landbond. From Damulothir’s own Great Keep I watched Beastlings pluck fisherfolk from the shore as you might pluck berries from the bush.”

“So you
have
seen what it is like to live constantly embattled,” Thurion said. “Give the Twenty an honorable reason to come across the Feinolons once and for all, and who would not? But for now, I may tell you that Penenjil and six more will fight beneath your banner. Antanaduk, Rutharban, Cazagamba, and Narazan say they will give their answer next War Season. Hallorad stands neutral, as always, but Dalwath Hallorad says Hallorad will sue for terms once you have won. The others support either Bethros or Haldil, or else pretend to in order to make their own bid to become Lord of the Grand Windsward when the rest are weakened by battle.”

“Seven is better than I dared to hope,” she said. The sense of his words caught up to her abruptly. “You said they will fight for me, Thurion. But I need them to renounce their claims to the Unicorn Throne.”

“They have promised to do so if you win against the Twelve.” Thurion’s response was troubled.

Vieliessar gave an exasperated sigh. Promises were easily broken, and if she did not hold the fealty of a domain’s War Prince, its knights could leave the field for any of a score of “honorable” reasons. It was still more than she’d thought she’d get.

“When can they join me?” she asked.

“The caravans leave for the Sanctuary each spring as soon as Nantirworiel Pass opens,” Thurion said. “It is a long way from the Grand Windsward to the west.”

Vieliessar made a faint sound of exasperation, but Thurion was right. The tribute caravans took moonturns to cross the Feinolon Peaks, the desert of the Arzhana, the Bazrahil Range, and the Mystrals on their way west. When the High Houses had gone east to break the Windsward Rebellion, they had made up their arrays mainly from levies upon their clientage Houses in the Uradabhur rather than move the whole of their own meisnes eastward.

She sighed in acceptance. “They will come when they will come.” As much as she might rail against the indecisiveness of the Windsward Houses, she would not herself choose a course that would force her army to overwinter in a hostile place.
If I had any choice about it,
she thought wryly. “But you may say to them that to join me, they need not go so far as Vondaimieriel,” she went on. “Soon I come east—I shall cross the Mystrals just before the Dragon’s Gate closes, and take the Uradabhur over the winter. It will be spring before the Alliance can follow me—if it dares to. Let my allies join me there, when it pleases them to do so.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Vieliessar had a dim sense of her own pavilion around her, the incense smoke blending with the ever-present scent of horse and dust. That faded as Thurion spoke again

“You can’t possibly…” he said in disbelief. “Vielle … even with just the folk of Oronviel, it would take sennights for you to get everyone through the Dragon’s Gate. And now you have…”

“Twenty domains,” Vieliessar said. “Their folk, their cattle, their
komen.
Twenty.” And five more she might yet prize loose from the Alliance, if she were quick and clever. She might make of herself and them such a High House as Jer-a-kaliel had never seen …

And it would be extinguished within her lifetime.

“That … I cannot imagine so many folk in one place,” Thurion said in awe. “You can never move them east in secret. Once the Alliance sees what you mean to do, they will stop you. They’ll stop you before you take the pass—Vondamieriel has only to send to Jaeglenhend, and—”

“And she will not,” Vieliessar answered simply. “For she will not think to. My enemies will be elsewhere, waiting for me.”

“You have a plan,” Thurion said slowly, and the dread in his voice made her smile. “Vielle, what do you mean to do?”

“Wait and see,” she answered. “Wait and see.…”

*   *   *

As early as Rain Moon, the Old Alliance had agreed Vieliessar was a danger, but they were already committed to their summer’s wars and saw no reason to change those plans—until Vieliessar took Laeldor and announced her Lightborn would renounce Mosirinde’s Covenant. A moonturn later, she rode to victory against Mangiralas and word came that she had executed all but one of its ruling House.