Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (79 page)

“My father is as witlessly conventional as the rest of you,” Ivrulion said, sounding bored. “He would never presume to set himself above you without first placing a sword at your throats. No. I have come to see whether you wish to win—or to become Farcarinon’s lapdogs.”

“To win, of course,” Sedreret Aramenthiali said. He strove for a patronizing tone and failed. “I wonder why you did not come forward earlier, if you hold the secret of victory.”

“Because he—” Runacarendalur struggled to speak the truth—Vieliessar, the Bonding, Ivrulion’s betrayal—and found himself forced once more to silence.

“Because my aid comes at a price,” Ivrulion said, ignoring him. “You would not have been willing to pay it while you could see any other path to victory.”

“If you have come to mock this council, remember you have sworn your fealty oath to me,” Bolecthindial said. The half-threat was a thing of reflex; if Runacarendalur was Bolecthindial’s son in thought and action, Ivrulion was Glorthiachiel’s. Glorthiachiel had always thought about what might be before facing what was; her clever mind had brought Bolecthindial and Caerthalien many victories, but she had also guarded against dangers that had never come to be.

“I did so swear,” Ivrulion agreed smoothly. “Now you must choose: hold me to those oaths and covenants—or claim the victory.” He smiled coldly. “You cannot force me to give you what you seek.”

“Oh, stop your posturing, Lightbrother,” Girelrian Cirandeiron said crushingly. “Tell us your plan and name your price. We shall enjoy the joke, I promise you. Then you may leave, and we shall return to matters no mere Lightborn can comprehend.”

“How is it that you have held my father’s respect these many years?” Ivrulion asked, as if he truly wanted to know. “Lord Bolecthindial is not known for idiocy.”

“I thank you for that, Ivrulion,” Bolecthindial said, speaking before Lord Girelrian could respond. “Speak. If you can give us the victory, you will not find me ungenerous.”

Ivrulion met Bolecthindial’s gaze for just a moment, and Bolecthindial felt a pang of unease. Ivrulion’s eyes were cold, and it had been many years since Bolecthindial had seen such hatred displayed so openly. “I will give you the victory, and you will make me your heir. I will be War Prince of Caerthalien upon your death. My children will become my heirs in turn. Ronadaniel will become Heir-Princess Ronadaniel. Huthiel will become Prince Huthiel.”

“Ridiculous—and impossible!” Chardararg Lalmilgethior said.

“And what of Prince Runacarendalur?” Runacarendalur said savagely, for these were words he could speak.

“Prince Runacarendalur will not survive the day.” To hear the words said so openly, so coldly, was enough to silence even the War Council. “My request is neither ridiculous nor impossible—if you all agree to it,” Ivrulion added. “If I fight on the field, why should I be barred from rule? Either way, my lords, choose. I cannot give you victory if you have already lost.”

“No,” Bolecthindial said flatly. “You dare speak of mur—”

“And Aramenthiali says yes,” Sedreret replied. “Must we vote upon this as if we are commoners?”

“I do not
vote
,” Lord Edheleorn said crushingly. “But before I agree to set Prince Runacarendalur aside—he yet lives, my dear Ivrulion—and accept a Lightborn as Caerthalien’s future War Prince, I wish to know how you mean to accomplish what all our meisnes together have not.”

“And I do not!” Bolecthindial roared, overturning his chair as he rounded on Ivrulion. “Shall I listen to you plot the death of my heir and say nothing? I—”

“I plot nothing,” Ivrulion said. “I speak only truth. Prince Runacarendalur will not survive this day. Nor will his death come at my hand.”

*   *   *

This was his intent all along.
From the moment Ivrulion had compelled him to break into the War Council, Runacarendalur had felt nothing but horror. Ivrulion had planned this from the moment he had learned of the Soulbond. He’d seen a chance to gain Caerthalien for himself—not as Ternas of Celebros had done, through regency, but as War Prince in fact.

No matter the cost.

Bolecthindial turned to him, silently demanding answers. And all Runacarendalur could do was cover his face with his hand and turn away.

“Meet my price, and I shall give you an army that will not desert and will not retreat, Lord Edheleorn,” Ivrulion said calmly. “It will slay Vieliessar Farcarinon and every soul who has sworn fealty to her. You will have the victory. And undoubtedly you will hope for Lord Bolecthindial to enjoy many long and happy years.”

“How do we know you will not take this army and make yourself High King?” Lord Sedreret demanded.

“It is your army, my lords, not mine. I do not want the High Kingship. All I want is my birthright. Caerthalien.”

Suddenly, sharp in Runacarendalur’s memory, was a Midwinter Feast he had never seen, but of which he had been told many times. Ivrulion had stood, had spoken the words that had led them to this day.

“Test me, Astorion,” Ivrulion had said, laughing. “I leaped the fire this springtide—you must Call the Light in me as well!”

Would any of the rest have happened—Nataranweiya’s marriage, Serenthon’s plan, Farcarinon’s erasure, Vieliessar and her tangled path to rule—if Ivrulion had never gone to the Sanctuary of the Star?

“It does not matter, Father,” Runacarendalur said softly, putting a hand on his father’s arm. “Come. I must prepare to ride out once more.”

“You have no need to flee, Caerthalien,” Lord Girelrian said. “I believe we are all agreed. Prince Ivrulion will be acknowledged by all of us as Heir-Prince—if he gives us the victory.”

With such a majority, the rest of the War Princes would have no choice but to agree as well.

Even Caerthalien.

“Then swear it, and I shall begin,” Ivrulion said.

Bolecthindial turned away in silence and walked from the tent, Runacarendalur beside him.

*   *   *

He paid little attention to Runacarendalur as he walked toward the Caerthalien precinct. No War Prince could ever love the rivals who might at any moment destroy lands, family, children—every hostage to the future Time had scattered in their paths like poisoned sweets. But Bolecthindial Caerthalien had long ago learned that hate was a toy for children. The War Princes were beyond both love and hate … at least the ones who survived.

Twice in a lifetime is twice too many to look upon my fellow princes and call them “ally.” Of all my peers and rivals, the one I came close to calling “friend” was Serenthon Farcarinon, and yet I betrayed him without a thought. I lost no sleep over it.

But even as he’d marshaled their allies to betray Serenthon, Bolecthindial had never hated him as in the last several moonturns he had come to loathe his fellow War Princes. And now they had forced upon him the ultimate insult.
But there is time yet to set that right. Let Ivrulion gloat over Caerthalien while he may. If only one of my sons is to survive this day, it will not be him.

Bolecthindial had been fond of all his children. Vieliessar had taken most of them. He would trade the life of one of the survivors for the life of the other—for Caerthalien.

It had all—always—been for Caerthalien.

As they reached the door of the pavilion, Bolecthindial heard the horns echoing through the camp, signaling the end of the abeyance. He turned to Runacarendalur.

“There is one last duty I must ask of you, as liege if not as father.”

“Father, do not think—I swear to you, what he has done does not—”

“Nor will it,” Bolecthindial said. “And so I charge you—survive this day. Do not rashly seek your death. What is made can be unmade. You will know that when you are War Prince.”

For a moment it seemed Runacarendalur would refuse him. Then he grasped Bolecthindial’s gloved and jeweled hand in his bloody gauntlets, and raised it to his lips.

“I swear to you, there is no other prince among the Hundred Houses I would ever have followed as gladly as I have always followed you, Father,” he said.

*   *   *

Their breath smoked on the chill air as they walked out onto the deserted battlefield. The air swirled with power, low and hot and forbidden, for it was the power spilled forth by the dead along with their blood. To Lightborn senses, it hung over the battlefield like a dark fog. The Sanctuary taught Mosirinde’s Covenant even before it taught Magery:
do this, do not do that
. Years ago, Ivrulion had realized those proscriptions were the marker stones leading to power unfettered by the shackles of convention, power undreamed-of.

“I do not understand what we’re doing, Father,” Huthiel said.

“We are gaining victory for Caerthalien and the Twelve,” Ivrulion answered.

“If I am to help Caerthalien to victory I must do it by the sword, and yet you refused to let me fight today—it was humiliating to see my
komen
led out onto the field by Uncle Rune!” Huthiel protested. “They must all think me a coward.”

“Soon they will not,” Ivrulion said, stopping. “If you had been a prince, as you were meant to be, you would have learned that it is the duty of the elder to sacrifice themselves so that the younger may flourish and rule, for only in that way can the House itself flourish and command.”

“I was raised among princes,” Huthiel said stiffly. “But—”

“Know that you are truly a prince of Caerthalien, Huthiel,” Ivrulion said. He drew his son close and kissed him upon the forehead. “Now I will teach you there are more paths to victory than can be gained by the sword.”

He stepped away from Huthiel and closed his eyes. The blood-drenched earth had frozen; it was black and glittering, like dark glass. He raised his arms, feeling a thrill bordering on ecstasy as he swept up that forbidden power and began to shape it.

Rise.

Janglanipaikharain had been drained of nearly all it could safely give. Now Ivrulion took the rest. Hundreds of miles to the west, the ever-living trees became a ghost forest. Fruit and flower and leaf, dead and withered, fell from lifeless branches, moss and vine turned brown and crisped away into dust. The soil in which Janglanipaikharain had once bloomed and flourished became lifeless sand.

Rise!

The power swept across the battlefield, shaped by Ivrulion’s will and resonating to his desire. All around him, lifeless flesh stirred to answer the call.

RISE!

For a moment the bespelling trembled on the knife edge of failure. Then Ivrulion turned swiftly and drew the knife he’d held concealed in his hand swiftly across Huthiel’s—
Prince
Huthiel’s—throat. Huthiel’s body fell to the ground. Wisps of steam rose from the fresh-spilled blood. The dead face still wore an expression of surprise.

Let this sacrifice seal the spell.

The power of Huthiel’s death coursed through Ivrulion’s veins like fire and wine, the gateway to power even he had only dimly imagined. Now he could feel the living heartbeat of the world—and with all his mind and will, Ivrulion plunged the dagger of his spell into it. Life and death were one. Ivrulion threw back his head and howled his triumph.

I name this place
Ishtilaikh
! Ruin!

Then the power crested like a great wave and rolled back toward him, feeding on death as it came. Ivrulion screamed as he saw the danger, but it was too late. Power filled him, transformed him, enflamed him with a ravenous hunger that must be fed on death—a hunger that could never be satisfied, never be slaked. The ice beneath his feet became fog. The grass became dust. The soil became lifeless sand. Ivrulion was no longer
alfaljodthi
, Trueborn, Pelashia’s Child. He was Darkness. He was Hunger. He was Death.

And the dead answered his call. Huthiel stirred, rose, then staggered across the battlefield to where a sword lay abandoned and clutched its hilt in still-cooling fingers. Destriers lunged to their feet, dragged themselves inexorably from pitfalls. For mile upon mile across the sprawling battlefield, dead flesh, blank-eyed and shambling, rose and began to move southward toward the pass, driven and animated by the will of that which had once been Ivrulion of Caerthalien.

*   *   *

The Alliance warhorns sounded, signaling the end of the abeyance. Vieliessar felt a pang of relief. By now the Alliance must have realized that its
komen
were deserting. That was why they’d called for the abeyance; many of those who would have ridden to her under cover of battle would not do so openly. She had been afraid the War Princes would refuse to continue to fight.

Silver Hooves grant I may demand their surrender when night falls!

She could not say whether she hoped for or dreaded the possibility that Runacarendalur might be among those to concede. If he lived …

Fool! Even if you gain the victory, you can never acknowledge he is your destined Bondmate! He is Caerthalien, greatest of the Hundred Houses—all would see your words of peace and justice to be a sham if you did!

“My lord! Do you see—” Rithdeliel began.

Vieliessar never heard the end of Rithdeliel Warlord’s question, for suddenly a wave of foulness poured through her Shields as if they didn’t exist. She dropped her sword and clawed at her armor as bile rose in her throat. Each breath she drew seared throat and lungs. She felt her flesh rot and liquefy. Her ears were filled with gibbering, with the chittering laughter of things that could not exist.

This is not real! This is not real!

Her Shields had saved her life a thousand times in the Sanctuary of the Star. They could not protect her now. She clawed at her helm, trying to shut out the terrible unreal sounds. Shouts of alarm, screams of terror, were transformed into prophecies of destruction, abomination,
loss
.

If I could open my eyes—oh Blessed Pelashia, let me open my eyes!
she cried silently. But the darkness invaded her with every breath she took. With all the strength she possessed, Vieliessar tried to claw her way free—back to light, to life, to sanity.