Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (70 page)

“But you can only do that within a domain,” Vieliessar said slowly. That much she knew to be true.

“Yes,” Thurion answered patiently. “The boundaries of domains are bespelled so that one domain cannot drain the power from all the Flower Forests of the land. But that does not mean they are not all linked. If they were not, how could anyone use Door across domain boundaries?”

Vieliessar said nothing. Some of what Thurion spoke of—the philosophy that underlay Magery—made sense to her. Much, she suspected, had been laid down like traps and snares to keep the Lightborn from thinking beyond the rote proscriptions handed down from Mosirinde’s time.

“But that has nothing to do with the question you asked,” Thurion went on. “You can go from any Flower Forest to any other, and so you can go to Tildorangelor as well.”

“With enough time and power,” Vieliessar said.
And neither is in great supply. Between us, we and the Alliance have already nearly drained Jaeglenhend’s Flower Forests.
It did much to explain why, if the matter was as simple as Thurion said, Amrethion’s city had never yet been discovered. First one would have to believe it existed, and then, allow some powerful Lightborn the liberty to spend years seeking it. “I thank you for your counsel, my friend. I will speak with you again as soon as I may.”

“The Light go with you,” Thurion answered quietly, and the spell was sundered.

It was long before she could steel herself to reach for Aradreleg.
Failure will mean nothing,
she told herself firmly.
Only that she is somewhere from which she may not answer. Not death. Celenthodial Flower Queen—say she still lives!

To her delight and relief, Aradaleg answered her at once. And when she had finished telling Vieliessar all that had happened in the last sennight, Vieliessar began to hope once more.

Rithdeliel had taken Jaeglenhend Keep.

She still had a chance to win.

At dawn two days later, Vieliessar mounted her destrier at the head of her party. From all Aradreleg had told her, the Alliance was well aware the keep had fallen. Since the Alliance hadn’t followed her to Oakstone Tower, Jaeglenhend Keep was its next logical target. Smash her army and they would be free to hunt her down at their leisure.

So they believe. But I am not prey to be hunted.

I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, and I will be High King.

*   *   *

By the time Runacarendalur and his sortie party crossed into Jaeglenhend’s manorial lands, he knew the Alliance was in trouble. Manor house and Farmhold alike were burnt out and stripped bare.

“A War Prince without lands is just another landless knight. Their
komen
will desert them and come begging for the scraps from our tables.…”
Bolecthindial’s careless words echoed mockingly in Runacarendalur’s memory.

“It looks as if a battle was fought here,” Helecanth observed, reining in beside him.

“Not a battle,” Runacarendalur answered, hating the note of anguish in his voice. “A retreat.”

He’d left Vieliessar’s army without supplies and thought to starve it into surrender. The tactic should have worked: Vieliessar’s vassal War Princes were the leaders of her army. He’d counted on them to do as the Alliance War Princes would have done in their place: quarrel over precedence, demand terms of surrender, or simply abandon the rebel cause, taking their meisnes with them. He’d expected them to fall into disorder and strife. He’d
counted
on it. But somehow—even without Vieliessar—they’d kept order. And to provision themselves as they rode north, they’d ravaged the countryside with terrifying efficiency.

“You’ve executed their entire households, and the Lightborn will bear them word of that…”

Every Ladyholder or Consort-Prince the Alliance had taken captive, every Heir-Prince or Heir-Princess who hadn’t been on the field, every favorite servant … the War Princes of the Alliance, certain of victory, had taken revenge on all those in their power. It was little consolation to know the princes wouldn’t have listened to him if he’d warned them against it. But he’d been as blind and overconfident as anyone.

“Why couldn’t we see it?” he said aloud. “Why couldn’t
I
see it?”

“Lord Runacarendalur?” Helecanth said, worried.

“What are you waiting for, Rune?” Ivrulion said, riding up. He looked over the stubble of the fields, the stumps of the orchards, the smoke-blackened shells of the manor house and outbuildings. “If I were Lord Nilkaran, I’d petition Vondaimieriel for a remission of my tithes for the next decade or so.”

Runacarendalur bit back the furious words he wished to say. Ivrulion’s pretence of being a loyal and devoted servant to Caerthalien’s Line Direct galled Runacarendalur like iron chains. On their way here, he’d tested the length of the leash Ivrulion held. So far as he could tell, his will was his own, save in three things.

He could not speak of the Bonding between himself and Vieliessar Farcarinon.

He could not kill Ivrulion.

And he could not kill himself.

He’d tried each of these actions a number of times without success, but did not yet hold himself defeated. Perhaps he could write down what he could not speak of. Perhaps he could order one of his vassals to slay Ivrulion, or tell Bolecthindial some story that would accomplish the same purpose—though even Runacarendalur’s imagination faltered at the prospect of spinning a tale that would cause Bolecthindial Caerthalien to execute one of the Lightborn. He might say anything he liked—so long as he did not speak of his Bonding—but to accuse Ivrulion of treachery would do nothing but make him look disordered in his wits.

“They’re loyal to her,” Runacarendalur said bleakly. The realization came too late.

Ivrulion studied him through narrowed eyes. “They don’t have any choice,” he said after a moment.

“We didn’t give them any,” Runacarendalur answered.
As you have given me none, faithless betrayer.

From the moment he first set foot upon the Sword Road, Runacarendalur had ridden to war thinking of victory, not death. Victory was sweet and good, and death, though glorious, put an end to the joys of war. But now death—
his
death—had become the only possible road to victory.

If he could claim it. For now, he touched his spurs to Gwaenor’s flanks and urged the stallion into a trot.
Where are they? Thousands of
komen
can’t just vanish.

When the riders appeared from behind a distant building, all he could make out at first was their green surcoats. He brought Gwaenor to a stop and raised his hand. The sortie party waited tensely, not knowing whether they would be attacking in the next few moments or fleeing from a superior force.

But …

“That is young Gothael,” Helecanth said suddenly. “I know him.”

She glanced toward Runacarendalur. He nodded, and she raised the warhorn to her lips and sounded the Caerthalien rally call. At the sound, the scouts spurred their mounts from a trot to a gallop.

“Prince Runacarendalur, what news?”
Komen
Gothael said, as he brought his palfrey to a halt.

“None,” Runacarendalur answered. “We’ve been four days on the road from the southern border. We’ve seen neither Landbond nor enemy.”

Gothael grimaced. “The enemy is at the Great Keep, my lord. We’ve just come from there.”

“Hilgaril, Prince Runacarendalur,” Gothael’s companion said, introducing herself. “The army fought there two days. All the Line Direct lives. Princess Angiothiel distinguished herself greatly.”

“My sister took the field?” Runacarendalur said in disbelief, unable to stop himself. Angiothiel—unlike her twin—had still been a maiden knight, for she’d never ridden to battle.

“What outcome?” Ivrulion asked sharply.

“The army prepares to fight again, Lord Ivrulion,” Hilgaril said.

“We lost,” Runacarendalur said flatly.

There was an awkward silence, as neither
komen
wanted to agree with him, whether it was true or not. “Report,” Runacarendalur said at last.

Both Gothael and Hilgaril were veteran scouts: their report was brief and to the point. Upon receiving word that Jaeglenhend Great Keep had fallen to the rebels, the army had turned to attack it, and had met the rebel force outside its walls. It had fought two battles there but had not gained the victory. Their losses had been relatively light … but neither army had offered a parley truce for the purpose of prisoner exchange or ransom. The army had decamped at dawn and was heading for the eastern border. Scouting parties were flanking the army’s line of march to collect wandering destriers, locate any
komen
who might have ridden from the field and been overcome by their wounds, and round up livestock and servants who had been scattered during the battle.

Runacarendalur could fill in the details Gothael and Hilgaril either didn’t know or didn’t wish to repeat: the War Council had decided it couldn’t win while the rebels held the Great Keep, and was hoping to lure them away from it by retreating toward Keindostibaent.

An idiotic plan; they’ll only leave when they’re ready to.

That the livestock had scattered meant either that Rithdeliel had attacked the Alliance’s camp—or that all their servants had simply fled during the battle. Some certainly had, undoubtedly hoping to join the enemy once their masters had left. That was bad enough, but that they had fought without a parley truce was worse. He knew it was unlikely that neither army had taken prisoners and he knew without having to ask that the War Council hadn’t thought of keeping the
komen
they’d captured alive as bait.

We are becoming lower than the Beastlings,
he thought wildly.
Slaughtering brave warriors without concern for the Code of Battle, just as if Arilcarion War-Maker had never lived.

Thankfully he’d schooled himself to stoicism by the time the scouts reached the worst of their news, for it was bad indeed. In the course of the fighting, the enemy had managed to retake not only their wagons and supplies, but the captive commons and livestock as well—and when the horses had bolted, they’d taken most of the loose Alliance horses with them.

So all we accomplished in the last fortnight is to harden their resolve—and gift them with some additional horses!
He gritted his teeth. The temptation to speak that thought aloud was great.

“And Vieliessar Farcarinon?” he asked.

“They fought in her name, Prince Runacarendalur,” Hilgaril said. “But she did not take the field.”

That’s because she’s still somewhere in the southern Barrens,
Runacarendalur thought wearily.
We’re between her and her army. And not one member of this so-called War Council will believe that if we just cordon Jaeglenhend from the Tamabeths all the way to Sadrunath Dales, either she or her army will have to try something stupid to get past us. No. They think she’s
going somewhere
, and they want to stop her. Don’t they see that
going somewhere
isn’t the point?

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “You’ve been very helpful.” Ivrulion looked at him suspiciously; Runacarendalur ignored him. “We ride now to rejoin the army.”

And prepare for the next honorless, graceless slaughter.

He no longer cared how Vieliessar had duped her vassal lords into mindless loyalty, nor cared that he’d become no more than his mad brother’s puppet. While he lived, he would fight. Vieliessar meant to destroy everything the Hundred Houses had spent a hundred centuries building.

And Runacarendalur meant to stop her.

*   *   *

Ten days after she left Oakstone Tower, Vieliessar reached Jaeglenhend Keep. She encountered the first pickets three leagues from its walls, and by the time she reached its gates, half the army had turned out to accompany her. They cheered her;
komen
tossing their swords in the air and making their destriers dance and rear, infantry and commons walking at the stirrups of those who had returned. It was as if the day had suddenly become Festival Fair. If this was devotion, Vieliessar wasn’t sure who—or what—its object was. All she knew was such fervor made her profoundly uneasy, even though she’d forged it into a tool to serve her ends.

“It’s all very well to ask people to die for you when you think you understand why they’re doing it, isn’t it?” Nadalforo said quietly.

“I’ve never asked anyone to die for me,” Vieliessar answered, keeping her voice equally soft. It was an effort.

“No,” Nadalforo agreed. “For your cause. For Amrethion’s Prophecy. You’ll find they don’t care about any of that. They’ll die for you, not for a dream.”

But that is all I am, Nadalforo. A dream.

It was the next afternoon before she could gather her commanders together in a formal meeting to hear what had happened in her absence and to give new orders, for the day and much of the night had been occupied with celebrations and processions. So many of her folk had wished to see her with their own eyes that she had spent candlemarks simply riding through the whole of the camp.

She’d thought to hold back the reason and the destination, but the army she had returned to was a very different thing from the army she’d left. In the beginning, she’d gathered the lords to her with the promise of freedom from High House oppression and the commons with the promise of justice—but now there was no lord who did not mourn murdered kin or vassal, no commonborn who had not suffered anew at the hands of the enemy. Vieliessar had cast aside the Codes of War that turned war from a tragedy into a sport, but she’d never thought about what would come of it. Once she had been all that held her army together. Now they would have fought even without her.

Without quarter, without mercy, and without regret.

So she told them their destination was a legend-place beyond the bounds of any map, knowing now that they would have followed if she’d told them it was the Huntsman’s castel in the winter stars.

It took them a sennight to ready themselves. As soon as they marched away from Jaeglenhend Keep, the Warhunt scattered across the land, bringing the word to every steading, croft, and Farmhold:
Nilkaran is dead. The High King leads her army to freedom. Will you come?