Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (67 page)

“How far south?” Lidwal asked. He looked too amused by his own wit for Runacarendalur’s taste.

“I am certain Lady Valariel expects you returned to her whole and unharmed,” Runacarendalur said, smiling as if he found Lidwal amusing. “But when you think about it, Lady Valariel is only Huntsman to the prince of a minor Less House, while I am Runacarendalur of Caerthalien. You may not care about that. But my brother is Lightborn, and
he
cares very much. I suggest you tell me what I want to know.”

Lidwal glanced from Runacarendalur to Ivrulion. Ivrulion smiled, and Runacarendalur thanked the Silver Hooves yet again for the fortune that had given his elder brother to the Light, for if it had not, he knew he would have faced a formidable competitor for their father’s throne—had he been born at all. Lidwal swallowed nervously, and Runacarendalur decided he’d judged correctly: a commonborn who knew himself too valuable to kill often became inured to physical punishment. But the hearth tales of the frightful spells the Lightborn could wield had spread even to crofter’s huts.

“I beg pardon, Prince Runacarendalur. I meant no harm,” Lidwal said humbly. “From here to the border, a few farms, nothing more. Follow this line due west and you might run into a hedge knight’s manor or two, but this far east … nothing.”

“And what lies on the other side of the border?” Runacarendalur asked.

“Nothing. My lord prince, I swear to you by the Huntsman it is true!” Lidwal cried in agitation. “To the south of Jaeglenhend there is forest. Nothing else.”

Runacarendalur glanced at Ivrulion. He’d never campaigned in the Uradabhur, and only ridden over it once, during the Bethros Rebellion. If he wasn’t going to fight over a territory, he didn’t care what was there, and if he was going to fight over it, he had maps.

“Is the forester lying, Mardioruin?” Ivrulion asked.

“It is as he says, Prince Ivrulion,” Mardioruin Lightbrother said. “There is nothing on Jaeglenhend’s southern border but forest. Some of the domains east of here extend farther south along the foothills of the Bazrahil range, but to take the Southern Pass Route westward one must jog northward at Keindostibaent and then track south again through the Tamabeth Hills.”

“Where is the nearest of the border keeps?” Runacarendalur asked next. Even if there were nothing to the south of Jaeglenhend but a lake of fire, there’d be watchtowers. And there was the Southern Pass road. If travelers from the Grand Windsward could use it, so could raiding parties from Keindostibaent.

Lidwal shook his head. “I know not!” he said quickly, when Runacarendalur frowned. “The hunting is poor to the south!”

And if there wasn’t decent hunting, there’d be no reason for the servants of the War Prince’s Huntsman ever to go there. “We’ll go straight south,” Runacarendalur decided. “Ride ahead. Look for tracks.”

*   *   *

Two days later Runacarendalur was beginning to wonder if Vieliessar had some form of Magery unknown to Ivrulion and other Lightborn. Lidwall’s painstaking inspection of the ground made their southerly progress a time-consuming thing, but better that than missing the track. But there’d been no sign of riders, and there was no one to ask, for the few border steadings they encountered were deserted and stripped, their fields either hastily harvested or simply set ablaze.
A grand-taille of outlaws and a demi-taille of Lightborn, and not one blade of grass is bent,
Runacarendalur thought in exasperation. Yet they must have come this way. Their mounts had been weary and starving; they did not possess the stamina to have doubled back or headed farther west.…

We’re running out of time,
Runacarendalur thought uneasily, but he knew that wasn’t true. They’d already run out of time. It was Rade, and there was already snow in the mountain passes. Even if he found Vieliessar tomorrow and all her army surrendered at once, they were trapped here until spring thaw. Long enough for the Alliance War Princes to turn on each other, for the Less Houses of the Uradabhur to turn on the Alliance, for anything to happen …

Each night when they stopped, Ivrulion Farspoke Feliot Lightbrother to report their continued failure and hear news of Caerthalien. Runacarendalur disliked the sensation of being watched over and second-guessed, but it was a relief to hear that Caerthalien had not been set upon by its allies.

Allies! A pack of wild dogs coursing a fat stag, as willing to bring down the lions among them as to take their lawful prey …

As if sensing his brother’s growing frustration, this morning Ivrulion had suggested a hunting expedition, and a day of hunting and a supper of roast venison did much to improve Runacarendalur’s temper. Afterward he wandered idly through the encampment, stopping here and there to exchange a word or two with his
komen,
then walked out past the bounds. His breath fogged on the air, and the stars above were bright. The Starry Road was a band of Silverlight across the heavens: as a child, whenever Caerthalien rode to war, he would slip away from his nurse—and later, his servants—to stand beneath the night sky, imagining he could hear the cries of the Hunt as they carried away those his father and brothers had killed that day.…

“A word, brother.”

Runacarendalur hadn’t heard Ivrulion approach, but a part of him always expected to suddenly find his brother near, for when Ivrulion had returned from the Sanctuary with Lightborn powers of stealth and concealment, he hadn’t scrupled to use them to terrify his newest sibling.

“I stand ready to hear,” Runacarendalur said, turning and sweeping Ivrulion a mocking bow.

“I think you should come back within the bounds. Anything might be out here,” Ivrulion said.

“I wish it were,” Runacarendalur muttered.

“Does it occur to you that we can find no sign of them because they are not here to find?” Ivrulion asked. “In three days, much could happen. They are a sennight ahead of us. If they quarreled— If by some mischance Vieliessar Farcarinon was slain—”

“She is not dead!” Runacarendalur said. “I—”
I would know. I, too, would die.…

He bit back the words unsaid, but it was too late. Ivrulion was studying him with new interest.

“Caerthalien stood in the front ranks at the false parley,” Ivrulion said.

“I was there,” Runacarendalur snapped. “To see Farcarinon once again profane the Code of Battle with trickery and lies.”

“Indeed,” his brother said. “I watched you that day. It seemed to me you meant to cry warning to our father that all was not as it seemed.”

“How should I have known that?” Runacarendalur said uneasily.

Ivrulion did not answer. “Walk with me, brother,” he said instead, taking Runacarendalur’s arm and leading him away from the encampment

They walked in silence for a time, until the lights of their camp were dimmed by distance. At last Ivrulion stopped.

“You were much changed upon your return from Oronviel,” he said.

“We lost,” Runacarendalur said shortly.

He was ill at ease with the direction of Ivrulion’s seemingly idle words. He would not have stood for such an interrogation from anyone else, even Lord Bolecthindial, but Ivrulion, of all his kin, was no threat to him. Lightborn might betray—Caerthalien had always safeguarded itself by ensuring that they would watch one another, vying for status and privileges—but what greater honors could Ivrulion wish than those he already held? Ivrulion could never inherit Caerthalien.
So Mosirinde Peacemaker and Arilcarion War-Maker intended, when they drew up the Code of Battle and the Lightborn Covenant. If no Lightborn can inherit a domain, or deed any of their gifts and honors to their children, it only makes sense for them to be loyal to those who can.
Before Oronviel, he’d been confident Ivrulion would outlive him and stand ready to guard the next War Prince of Caerthalien as he’d guarded the last.

And so he would, but that War Prince would not be Runacarendalur’s child.

“A tragic day,” Ivrulion said smoothly. “And yet … I feel there is more to your distemper than a loss upon the battlefield. Oronviel’s victory that day touches Bolecthindial’s honor—yet it is you who would cast off all reason and sense to compass Vieliessar Farcarinon’s death.”

“I act for the good of Caerthalien!” Runacarendalur said, but even in his own ears, his words rang hollow.
I will not be Bonded to a monster!

“And yet … Is it good to withhold from Caerthalien that which may profit it to know?” Ivrulion asked silkily. “I think you have a secret you wish to confide in me, brother.”

There is nothing to tell.
He opened his mouth, the words ready on his tongue.

But those were not the words he spoke. Instead, “Vieliessar Farcarinon is my destined Bondmate,” he said, and saw Ivrulion smile.

“So I suspected.”

“You— How dare you bespell me, as if I were—” Runacarendalur willed himself attack, to draw his sword, to strike down his treacherous brother. Instead, he staggered backward a few clumsy steps.

“Some treacherous vassal, some outlaw, some Landbond rabble?” Ivrulion said lightly. His smile was a cold and predatory thing. “But dear brother, what may we say of one who has held Vieliessar Farcarinon’s life in his hands this half-year and forborn to take it?”

“No one would believe it was other than a plot by Caerthalien to…” Runacarendalur’s ragged words faltered to a stop, but at least this time they were his own. He imagined he could feel the Magery Ivrulion had netted him in like a cold slime upon his skin, taking from him all dignity, all choice …

“As my choice was taken!” Ivrulion said, and for once the cold, controlled voice held bright anger. “I was Heir-Prince to Caerthalien! I! You were not even thought of! It was to have been mine! Instead, I am a servant, to scrape and bow, to take orders like the lowest hedge knight, to see my children dispraised, having nothing unless the charity of the next War Prince decrees it! Do you know what my Midwinter Gift was in the year I was Chosen? A sword. I had ridden to war as our father’s arming page. In the summer to come, he would have made me
komen
. But I did not ride to war that summer. No. When War Season came that year, I was at the Sanctuary of the Star, scrubbing pots and sweeping floors. I comforted myself with the knowledge that Domcariel was slow and foolish, and I would still rule Caerthalien with him as my puppet. And when at last I was released, I discovered they had bred another heir. You.”

“But you were Called.…” Runacarendalur faltered, still stunned by Ivrulion’s fury. How could ’Rulion have held the dream of Caerthalien so close that none of them had suspected he was rotted through with cheated ambition?

“Called!” Ivrulion spat. “I was never meant to go before Astorion Lightbrother in Open Court that night! It should have been Carangil or Feliot, who knew what they should see and what they should not. Helegondolrindir Astromancer was as rotted through with dreams and ambitions as both her successors. It was her scheming that set me before Astorion. But I have been patient. And my patience is to be rewarded at last.…”

He is mad
, Runacarendalur thought in horror, trying desperately to guard his thoughts from Ivrulion’s hearing. He would die, and this madthing, this witchborn traitor brother, would be Regent.…

“Oh, Rune, sweet brother,” Ivrulion said, shaking his head sadly. “Do you think me so simple? Come. Let us see what we may make of this Bond of yours.…”

Runacarendalur stood helplessly as Ivrulion advanced upon him. He felt cool hands pressed against his temples.

And then there was only light, and pain.

*   *   *

For a moment Runacarendalur could not think where he was. He thought hazily of battle, of being struck from Gwaenor’s back and carried to the Healing Tents. But his fingers flexed in night-chill grass as, with a groan, he opened his eyes. The sky above him was pale with dawn, and even that small light was enough to send lancing pain through his head. He winced, turning his head to the side.

“What a pity,” Ivrulion said.

“That I’m alive?” Runacarendalur asked after a moment, his voice, a hoarse whisper.

“That it didn’t work,” Ivrulion said reprovingly. “I’d hoped to locate the supposed High King through your Bond. But alas, my poor skills proved inadequate to that task.”

“I’ll see you dead.” With a supreme effort, Runacarendalur rolled onto his stomach. Nausea surged through him but he fought it back as he struggled to rise.

“By the Light, I never before thought you stupid.” Ivrulion stepped forward and hauled him to his feet. Runacarendalur balanced on unsteady legs, swaying and gasping. “Do you think I’m going to let you fling yourself at our dear father’s feet and confess?”

Runacarendalur shook his head, trying to clear it. Would Bolecthindial believe him? It didn’t matter. He had to try.

“You see, dear brother—or you should, since your tactical skills have made you the darling of the Storysingers—one does not throw away a useful weapon. Go to Bolecthindial to confess, and you will find you cannot. Take up your courage to end your life and your Bondmate’s, and you will find you cannot.” Ivrulion took him by the arm and began to walk him back toward the camp. Runacarendalur staggered and stumbled beside him, helpless to resist.

His strength returned swiftly, though his head ached abominably. After a few paces, Runacarendalur yanked his arm free and took a step backward. His hand closed over the hilt of his sword, and as it did, he vowed to the Silver Hooves that one of them would die here this day. Perhaps both.

He pulled at the sword with all his strength. It did not move.

“Attempt to kill me, and you will find you cannot do that either,” Ivrulion said gently. He smiled, and for an instant Runacarendalur saw his brother, his ally, his friend …

Then Ivrulion’s dark eyes grew hard and cold. His smile did not change.

“Now come. Your
komen
will wonder what has kept you from your bed all night. And I am eager for my breakfast.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE HERO TALE

Every war begins with its own hero tale, as if it were a great lord who had lived a long life and now has a story-song crafted to be sung over its funeral pyre. And any prince who clings to that story-song after a campaign begins will drink to drowning of the cup of defeat and loss, for a war is not a warrior, and no mortal prince can force the world to follow their whim as if they wear the cloak of the Starry Huntsman.