Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (46 page)

Runacarendalur picked up the winecup on the tray a servant had brought to his room but set it down again. He’d been summoned to attend Father’s gathering as soon as he was washed and dressed. He’d need a clear head for that—he’d rather walk naked into an ice tiger’s den at Midwinter than deal with any of the Old Alliance. Or their consorts.

He regarded himself in the mirror and thought he looked presentable enough. No one would think that for more than a sennight he’d been sleeping under bushes and eating food he wouldn’t throw to his hounds.
I wonder how many Houses will remain of the ancient Hundred once the dust of battle has settled this time?
he thought.

He gave a last tug to his tunic and walked from his chambers.

*   *   *

The old records called the chamber directly above the Great Hall the Audience Chamber, but generations of War Princes had conducted all their duties in the Great Hall, before the sight of all, or in their private chambers, before the sight of none. Runacarendalur couldn’t remember the last time the Audience Chamber had actually been used. Just now it had been dressed as a rather luxurious receiving chamber.

“—stromancer could have picked a more convenient time to enact this foolishness,” Runacarendalur heard as the servant opened the door. It was Lord Girelrian—War Prince Girelrian of Cirandeiron—who spoke. She was old enough to be her husband’s greatmother, for she had taken the throne early and ruled alone until the need to secure the Line caused her to make Irindandirion of Cirandeiron her Consort-Prince. Irindandirion was deadly upon the battlefield and fanatical about his clothes and jewels. He kept a dozen catamites and knew better than to involve himself in any matters of rule.

“Oronviel’s timing in removing its Postulants from the Sanctuary is interesting,” War Prince Ivaloriel Telthorelandor said. “Either Hamphuliadiel plots with Oronviel, or Oronviel wishes us to think he does. Either way, we have sufficient cause to encourage the Astromancer to resign—whether the Vilya has … ah … fruited, or not.”

It was said no one had ever seen Lord Ivaloriel angry, even when the tide of battle turned against him. His detachment on the field was matched only by his even-handedness in ruling his domain; the War Prince of Telthorelandor ruled without favorites or intimates—except Ladyholder Edheleorn, his Bondmate. Runacarendalur barely flinched at the thought of Bonding; the fact that three War Princes were being hosted by a fourth was too shocking.

“Oh, but here is Runacarendalur!” An exquisitely dressed woman, all in green, left her husband’s side and swept over to where Runacarendalur stood. She placed a hand upon his chest and gazed up at him meltingly. “Why, you are even more handsome than you were when I saw you last. Soon you will eclipse your father in beauty and I shall be lost.”

“Ladyholder Dormorothon,” Runacarendalur answered, his voice even. He didn’t miss the look of cold venom Lord Manderechiel directed at his lady’s back—and at him, for there were two things in the Fortunate Lands the War Prince of Aramenthiali hated above all others: his wife … and House Caerthalien.

Dormorothon was Manderechiel’s second wife—his first marriage had been a love match, but Lady Ciamokene had died giving birth to Sedreret Heir-Prince, and Manderechiel had chosen to wed Dormorothon, for no Lightborn’s children would ever challenge the progeny of his beloved Ciamokene for the right to succeed him. Dormorothon had been plotting even then; she made sure to bind Sedreret to her with ties stronger than blood. And now the tapestry of power patterned by the threads of her weaving was in danger of being disastrously unraveled.

“I see Mother is here before me. Have you yet had time to greet her properly?” Runacarendalur asked, doing his best to feign obliviousness. He walked with Dormorothon to where Ladyholder Glorthiachiel stood, Ivrulion beside her. Ivrulion nodded fractionally as Runacarendalur’s eyes met his: the chamber was Warded against any use of Magery. Ladyholder Dormorothon was not thought to possess the Lightborn Magery that would permit her to Hear the thoughts of others, but no one wanted to take any chances.

It is fortunate that
’
Rulion has not also Warded this chamber against lying, or it would burst into flames and kill us all,
Runacarendalur thought, as Ladyholder Dormorothon and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel exchanged remarks about how delighted they were to see each other again, and how foolish it was for two Great Houses which should naturally be allies and the closest of friends to ever fight. Runacarendalur avoided glancing toward Ladyholder Dormorothon’s husband, for War Prince Manderechiel and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel had hated each other for centuries, and Aramenthiali would declare for Oronviel’s cause in an instant if Vieliessar would promise him the chance to torture to death every member of Caerthalien’s Line Direct.

If not, of course, for his own overweening ambition.

Four Great Houses. Four War Princes. And all wish to be High King—except, perhaps, for Telthorelandor, and there I am simply not sure what Lord Ivaloriel wants. I don’t think anyone is, except perhaps Ladyholder Edheleorn.

Ivrulion’s presence at the meeting was reasonable enough. As Caerthalien’s Chief Lightborn, he was responsible for seeing that none of Lord Bolecthindial’s guests were poisoned or bespelled during their stay. Runacarendalur, however, was in attendance for no purpose other than to give a report of the campaign against Oronviel.

“Enough of this,” Lord Manderechiel barked. “We take no joy in one another’s company. We are here to discover why your heir made such a disastrous botch of a simple raid!”

“If it was so simple, my lord, I am surprised Aramenthiali did not precede Caerthalien to the field,” Runacarendalur said. “You also share a border with Oronviel, do you not? But perhaps your spies are better than ours.”

There was a moment of silence, then Ladyholder Dormorothon laughed.

“None of us has been able to gain any useful knowledge of matters within Oronviel, Prince Runacarendalur,” Lord Ivaloriel said calmly. “I believe we all know much the same things: first Hamphuliadiel Astromancer demands Vieliessar Lightsister be returned to the Sanctuary—so we know she has left it—then we discover she has taken Oronviel from Lord Thoromarth through the exercise of an ancient custom no one has thought to set aside. At Midwinter she declares she will become High King. And now it is Rain, and all we have known for moonturns is rumor.”

“One rumor is true,” Runacarendalur answered. “The mercenaries who fight for her do so wearing Oronviel colors.”

“You said ‘they fight for
her
,’” Lord Girelrian said. “We have understood it is Thoromarth who leads the army of Oronviel.”

“No,” Runacarendalur said, shaking his head. “If that were so … I would have won the day. Vieliessar leads them into battle and fights as if she was born in armor.”

Damn Father for this. And Mother too. How am I to know what they want me to say if I have not spoken to them privately first?
But whatever else Runacarendalur might think of his family, his parents weren’t stupid. It must be the truth—or a pretense of truth—he was here to offer.
And it is too much to hope that everyone’s spies do not already know what remains of our Household guard, so truth it is.…
He recounted the events of that day and night as plainly as possible.

“I do not believe it,” Ladyholder Dormorothon said, shaking her head decisively. “I met her while she was still at the Sanctuary—a simple child who knew nothing of the world. A gifted Healer, yes, but hardly a master Warlord.”

“Believe what you choose,” Runacarendalur said shortly. “If you prefer to think Thoromarth has somehow changed his entire way of waging war in half a year, then perhaps that is more likely.”

“We do not need to fight with each other yet,” Ladyholder Edheleorn said, implying, with good reason, that they would undoubtedly fight with one another later. “There might be many explanations for Oronviel’s new ways.”

“Perhaps,” Runacarendalur said, fighting to hold to his temper. “Vieliessar may have found some gifted knight whose counsel she follows. Or perhaps one of her mercenaries plans her tactics. We have all made use of them, and we did not do so because they lost battles. But this much is true: she led her army herself and she did not die on the field. If she is not a master Warlord, then she is at least a blooded knight.”

“Ah, Bolecthindial, perhaps you should have risked our ire these many years ago and betrothed the girl to your heir,” Lord Manderechiel said. “I am sure we would not have asked so very much in reparations for that transgression. And he seems fonder of her than of the Oronviel Princess he has—among other things—lost.”

“Does your champion accompany you, Lord Manderechiel?” Runacarendalur asked with icy politeness.

“I think we can dispense with this foolishness, Manderechiel,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said briskly. “We are here to decide what to do in the matter of Oronviel, not to provide Caerthalien with entertainment.”

“What to do? To see Vieliessar Farcarinon dead, of course,” Lord Manderechiel answered. “What else?”

*   *   *

“I know it was a shameful and difficult thing to force you to,” Lord Bolecthindial said, candlemarks later, “but it was necessary.”

Runacarendalur had been allowed to escape the interrogation soon afterward. Rather than risk encountering the other War Princes or their Households elsewhere in the castel, he’d gone directly to his rooms, only to find a message summoning him to attend his father later. He’d been even more surprised, when he’d come at the appointed candlemark, to find Lord Bolecthindial alone.

“How could it have been necessary to expose us in our weakness—and me in my folly?” he said irritably.

“I require my former allies to believe Oronviel to be a threat to all of us,” Bolecthindial said.

“How can you believe it is not?” Runacarendalur demanded, stunned. “Vieliessar flouts the Code of Battle—she slaughtered most of the Household guard—she—”

“By drawing my old allies close and bleating in terror like a tethered kid, I gain concessions from Telthorelandor and Cirandeiron, and lull Aramenthiali,” Bolecthindial answered calmly.

“Do not tell me you sent your knights to be slaughtered for that?” Runacarendalur said hoarsely.
Two-thirds of my army; she slaughtered two-thirds of my army.…

“No,” Bolecthindial shook his head. “I believed, as you did, that you would gain the victory. But you did not, and so I must choose another weapon.”

“What weapon?” Runacarendalur asked. “How can you believe anything will succeed when your army has failed?”

“It is a weapon I have wielded before,” Bolecthindial replied. “Its edge is keen enough to slay any prince.”

And he would say nothing more.

*   *   *

Barely a sennight after the defeat of Caerthalien’s army, Oronviel marched upon Laeldor. There was little for any of them to do while the army was on the march. Lord Vieliessar had sent Ambrant Lightbrother to War Prince Ablenariel with her challenge the moment she had reached Oronviel Great Keep. He had not rejoined the army along its march, which meant either he was still trying to persuade Lord Ablenariel of the wisdom of surrender or was being detained. Thoromarth had expected Ablenariel to take the field by now, if only in response to the nagging of his Caerthalien-bred wife and the sly proddings of a Chief Lightborn all knew to be inclined toward Aramenthiali. But he had not, and now two more days would see them at Laeldor’s Great Keep.

Riding the bounds of the camp each night was the only sign of nervousness Lord Vieliessar betrayed. Thoromarth wasn’t sure whether he was glad to see his prince fretting over the future like some ordinary
komen
or worried that her unease was the harbinger of catastrophe. Tonight she had bidden him to ride with her.

“Have you thought of what you will do if you win?” Thoromarth asked.

“
When
I win,” Vieliessar corrected.

Thoromarth waved the correction aside irritably. “When you win, if you win.… A good commander prepares for failure.”

“If I fail, there is nothing to prepare for,” Vieliessar said simply. “But I have planned for success.”

“I am eager to hear your thoughts,” Thoromarth said dourly.

“Should Ablenariel surrender himself and his domain and pledge fealty to me, I will spare his life. Then I shall take the whole of Laeldor’s army and add it to Araphant’s, and I shall march upon Mangiralas.”

“You’d leave Laeldor undefended?” Thoromarth asked.

“If Caerthalien wishes to invest Laeldor, and in doing so spread what remains of its armies thinner still, I shall be pleased to let them do so,” she answered. “If Caerthalien and Aramenthiali wish to fight over Laeldor and Araphant, let them. They weaken themselves, and both domains will be mine in the end.”

“If you win,” Thoromarth said.

“
When
I win,” she answered with an edged smile. “If I am forced to fight Laeldor, the end is much the same, save that I execute Ablenariel, and any of his family who will not renounce their claim to the Unicorn Throne in favor of mine. Either way…” She hesitated.

“What?” Thoromarth asked.

“Thoromarth, I cannot afford a siege here. I do not have time.”

“Shouldn’t you say this to Ablenariel? Perhaps it would convince him to surrender.”

“I must ask something of you,” she said, and sounded so troubled that Thoromarth felt a cold pang of unease strike like an enemy’s dagger to his chest.

She did not speak again until she had led the two of them so far from the edge of the camp that they crossed the path of the sentries on watch. “You know Magery is said to be Pelashia’s Gift to the
alfaljodthi
,” she began slowly.

“My lord, if you wish to speak of Magery, speak to Rithdeliel, or Gunedwaen, or even to your destrier—not to me, I beg you,” Thoromarth said hastily. “You know that—”

“I must!” she said, so urgently that Thoromarth reined his palfrey to a stop. “You may not know of the Covenant the Lightborn swear to abide by, which we will keep—which they will keep—even if their liege-lords order them to do something against it. But you know that the Lightborn do not use their arts in war.”