Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (7 page)

She did not wear the green robe, but she wore the Sanctuary’s badge upon her tabard. She was not young, for her braids were streaked with grey, and yet there was such dignity and power about her that for a moment Thurion was certain he gazed upon the Astromancer herself.

“I am Mistress Maeredhiel,” she said crisply. “Candidates, I greet you in the name of the Sanctuary of the Star. Until the day you are Called to the Light—if you are—you are my responsibility. In your Service Year you will take your orders from me. Now, who is it the Sanctuary of the Star has the honor to welcome this day?”

It was a wonder in a day of wonders that Mistress Maeredhiel had, until her last sentence, ignored Prince Runacarendalur as if he were any servant boy. Now he spoke, his speech as deferential as if he spoke to Lord Bolecthindial himself. “Caerthalien entrusts to the Sanctuary of the Star Candidates Berthon, Athrothir, Thurion, and—”

“I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, War Prince of Farcarinon!” Varuthir said, stepping forward. “I come as a prisoner, not a Candidate! Though Caerthalien slew my parents, Farcarinon yet lives!”

*   *   *

There was a moment of electric silence, and Runacarendalur cursed himself for eleven kinds of fool—and then cursed his mother for good measure, as he was certain this was of Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s weaving. Who else could have—or would have—told the girl her true name?

“That’s as may be, girl,” Mistress Maeredhiel said briskly, “but here we care nothing for the quarrels of the Hundred Houses—nor will you, if you have wit.”

Vieliessar opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it again, glowering wordlessly. Berthon and Athrothir were backing away from her, their expressions as shocked as if she had named herself Beastling. Thurion alone clearly had no idea what her declaration meant, for he simply gazed at her, his expression puzzled.

“Prince Runacarendalur, the Sanctuary of the Star thanks you for your service,” Mistress Maeredhiel said, as if there had been no interruption. “Will you visit the Shrine while you are here?”

Runacarendalur took a hasty step backward, and cursed inwardly at the gleam of amusement he saw in Maeredhiel’s eyes. He knew the day would come when he must stand within the Shrine and be judged by the Silver Hooves, as his father had been before him—but Pelashia grant that day still lay far in the future!

After a moment, he recovered himself enough to bow. “Alas that my duties do not permit it,” he said ironically. “But I will commend your great diligence to my father, when next I see him.”

“Caerthalien has always done us every courtesy,” Maeredhiel answered blandly. “Come along, you four. If you are waiting to be presented to Hamphuliadiel Astromancer, you will stand here forever. He is far too busy to waste his time on children.”

*   *   *

The outer doors of the sanctuary closed behind Runacarendalur, and Mistress Maeredhiel began walking away. “
Farcarinon?
” Athrothir said, staring at Vieliessar in stunned amazement. “But—Serenthon—”

“Your interest in the history of the Hundred Houses does you credit, young Athrothir,” Mistress Maeredhiel said repressively, stopping and looking back at them. “And I say again—for what I am certain is not the last time—until the day you leave us, neither rank nor House concerns you. Now come.”

Thurion walked forward at once; after a moment Berthon and Athrothir followed. With nowhere else to go, Vieliessar trailed after them. She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased to see Athrothir put in his place so sharply, or irritated that her announcement had not carried more weight. The only thing she was certain of was that it had come as no surprise to Prince Runacarendalur.
May the Silver Hooves spurn you at your death, faithless betrayer!

“You will be called to serve during your first year in all the ways you—or
some
of you—have been served in the past,” Maeredhiel said as she led them along the corridor. “Those who have been in service before you will assist you in learning your tasks. The Sanctuary has few ordinary servants, not enough to do all that is required. Your labor will be needed.”

“What will we have to do?” Berthon asked, a little timidly.

Maeredhiel fixed him with a skeptical eye. “What
can
you do, young Berthon?” she asked. “No matter. You will learn. We have hosted all manner of Candidates in our time, from Landbonds to heirs to the Line.” She glanced toward Vieliessar.

Two corridors led away from the Antechamber of the Shrine; they had turned along the
tuathal
one. As they walked, Mistress Maeredhiel named each chamber they passed and gave its function. The chambers on the ground floor
tuathal
side were used only during the day, for study, practice, or meditation.

“This side passage leads to the stairs down to the Library,” Maeredhiel said, gesturing. “Perhaps someday you will see what lies within it.” She led them up the great stone staircase to the second floor.

There was a long hallway at the top of the stair, and Maeredhiel again turned left. The walls were lined with small plain doors, set so closely together that Vieliessar knew the rooms behind them must be nearly as small as the winter blanket closets at Caerthalien. Every door was closed. “These rooms are for those who have begun their training in the mysteries of the Sanctuary, as well as for those Lightborn who return to us for a time, as many do.”

At the end of the hallway was another staircase leading to the top floor of the Sanctuary. As Maeredhiel began to ascend, she continued her lecture. “Because you come so early, there are none here to place you with, so to save myself work, you lads will share a room. Do not expect such consideration for long. You will later share rooms with those of every House and fighting will be punished severely.”

Athrothir opened his mouth and closed it, Berthon looked as if he’d only just realized where he was, and Thurion looked as if he was hearing only what he’d expected to.

“It matters not what clothing or jewels you have brought with you. It will all be sent back with your escort. While you are here, you will wear the livery of the Sanctuary, as I do. Should you be Twice-Called to the Light, you will wear the green tabard of a Postulant. While you are here, you will wear no jewelry, no scent, no ornaments in your hair—nor may you dress your hair high upon your head or wear more than four braids. You will rise at the candlemark appointed to rising and you will seek your bed upon the candlemark appointed to sleeping. You may not walk outside the Sanctuary without permission, nor may you enter the Sanctuary garden without permission, nor may you cross the bounds of the Sanctuary lands at any time. If you do not wish to eat what is served to you, you may hunger. If you do not wish to perform the tasks set for you, you will be sent from the Sanctuary and your House will be notified of your disgrace when the next Candidates arrive.”

As Maeredhiel spoke, Vieliessar saw Berthon and Athrothir exchange looks of horror, for even Farmholders might expect—on feast days—to go in fine clothing and perfume, with colored cords and combs for their hair.

She’d had few enough of those things at Caerthalien. What disturbed her more was that now she would never have them—because she would never leave the Sanctuary of the Star.

The rooms on the top floor were each meant to hold six Candidates. All the doors were open, so as they passed they could see that the beds were stacked in pairs, with the upper bed held off the floor by elongated legs. Each room was barely large enough for three beds and a warming brazier. The mattresses were bare, and thin, and at the sight of them, Athrothir and Berthon once again exchanged looks of dismay.

At the end of the hallway, Mistress Maeredhiel stopped in front of a room that looked much like any other, save for the piles of cloth—blankets and bedlinens, along with tunics and trews in the grey of a Sanctuary servant—that lay upon the lower bed closest to the door.

“Change your clothing and stand before your door when you are done. Bring what you now wear with you. Vieliessar, come with me.”

She thought to rebel, but again the question stopped her: if she ran, where would she go? And so, silently, she followed Maeredhiel back along the hall to a room with only one pile of cloth upon the bed. She walked inside and Maeredhiel followed, closing the door behind them.

“I don’t belong here,” Vieliessar said as she unlaced her stormcloak. Catching Maeredhiel’s faintly scornful look, she added: “I mean, I don’t belong
here
. Aren’t there rooms where the— Where those who will remain here forever stay?” she finished reluctantly.

Maeredhiel studied her for a long moment in silence. “It would please me immensely to know why you think you belong in one.”

“A moonturn past, Mistress Nindorogond said I was to go to the Sanctuary and bide there forever. Upon the day of my going, Glorthiachiel of Caerthalien gave me my true name.”

“Scratch Caerthalien and touch pitch,” Mistress Maeredhiel said in disgust. “I had wished to choose my own time to tell you of your heritage. All you will be thinking of now is vengeance upon the destroyers of your line—and if I know that blood-maddened shrew my brother’s greatson married, she’ll have been sure to tell to tell you it was House Caerthalien that crushed House Farcarinon beneath its bootheel.”

“You are Caerthalien!” Vieliessar spat. “Why—”

“I am Mistress Maeredhiel of the Sanctuary of the Star!” Maeredhiel answered hotly. “Caerthalien is nothing to me—nor can it be to you. Look you, girl. You were sent as a Candidate, and so a Candidate you shall be. If the Light comes to you, you will become Lightborn, and that is a problem for another day. Think long and hard, Vieliessar Farcarinon, before showing the Light even if you possess it, for a Mage may be called from the Sanctuary where a servant cannot be, and you must never leave here. Do you understand why?”

“Because I am
Farcarinon
,” Vieliessar said bitterly.

“Indeed you are,” Maeredhiel said. “Vieliessar Farcarinon, the last of the Line, and do you set one foot beyond the bounds of the Sanctuary, your life is forfeit. I was here the night Lady Nataranweiya came to us. Lord Serenthon was dead, and the lady his Bondmate was dying, yet she won through to Sanctuary so that she might give you life. If you possess one-tenth her bravery, there is greatness in you.”

Vieliessar stared in shock, for Maeredhiel spoke of her unknown mother—and her House—with something almost akin to approval. “Do you—? Are you—?” she stammered, her anger forgotten.

“It was I who saw you named, and Celelioniel Astromancer—she who left us these four years past—who set the Peacebond upon you as you drew your first breaths. And know now if you did not before—the Peacebond is why you lived, but it ran only until you should return to us.”

“Then I need never have come here at all,” Vieliessar said bitterly. “I might have had my freedom, knowing no prince could strike me down and risk the Peacebond’s vengeance.”

“That is not so. Did Celelioniel Astromancer try to set the Peacebond on you without some term to it, the Hundred would have forced her to lift it,” Maeredhiel answered. “Failing that, they might have imprisoned you—or forced you into some marriage to lay claim to all that Farcarinon once held—or worse.”

Vieliessar turned away, dropping her cloak and her gloves to the bed.

“You will hear me,” Maeredhiel said, and her voice rang with such iron authority that Vieliessar looked up in surprise.

“None knows better than I how Caerthalien breaks hearts and lives, child. Six hundred years gone, my brother slew Aradrothiach of Cirandeiron, who would have been my Bondmate. War Prince Palierlaniel Caerthalien did not like the thought of a Caerthalien daughter going to Cirandeiron—and so she summoned Aradrothiach to the betrothal feast, and my brother slew him.”

“But you aren’t dead!” Vieliessar blurted, and Maeredhiel smiled sardonically.

“I knew Aradrothiach for my destined Bondmate, but our Bond was not yet made. Haramarthien could slay my beloved without risk to me—and so he did. But that night I fled to the Sanctuary of the Star, and here I have remained. And I say to you, Vieliessar Farcarinon: patience is the true sword of vengeance. If you can keep Caerthalien uneasy in its bed for century upon century, knowing you are alive and well, it will be a vengeance well crafted.”

“That is not vengeance enough for me!” Vieliessar protested hotly.

“Ah, well, Celelioniel swore you were the Child of the Prophecy,” Maeredhiel said mildly. “Undoubtedly you will think of something better. Now, dress yourself, for we have spent too long in idle chatter.”

Before Vieliessar could ask the dozen questions Maeredhiel had put into her mind, the Mistress of Servants swept from the room and closed the door behind her.

Child of the Prophecy,
Vieliessar thought dazedly.
What Prophecy? Why should Celelioniel Astromancer have set a Peacebond upon me if the Hundred Houses chose to erase Farcarinon?

Sighing, she leaned over to pull off her boots. She did not know what she should do now—but the one thing she had gained from Maeredhiel’s words was the knowledge the Sanctuary meant
time
.

She would wait.

And plan.

The dormitory wing echoed emptily at first, for the day before the first caravan train arrived, the Candidates now finishing their Service Year had been sent to sleep in a vast windowless chamber in the other wing of the third floor. The new Candidates saw them only in passing, for it was the Sanctuary servants themselves who oversaw the training of those entering their Service Year.

Spring meant not only the arrival of the Candidates, but of great lords coming to make luck-sacrifices at the Shrine for fortune in the coming War Season, and Lightborn returning to the Sanctuary for counsel. Rare was the day when no tribute caravan arrived—and then two, three, five each day. Each, when it departed, carried away with it those who had ended their Service Year without being called to the Light as well as those newly come to the Green Robe.

In the first days, Vieliessar found herself too weary each night to even think of escape, for each day began before sunrise with the sound of Mage-conjured bells. Those who were to serve at table or in the kitchens hurried through their washing and dressing and hastened off to begin their tasks while their fellows savored a few moments of leisure before being summoned to the first meal by more bells. When the meal was done, the Postulants went to their lessons, the Lightborn to their still-mysterious tasks, and the Candidates to their work. Few of the Candidates were accustomed to their labors, for few of them had been Called from families in service to a Great Keep or manor house. Mistress Hamonglachele, in whose keeping lay the Sanctuary guesthouse and the duty of hospitality to visitors, had claimed many of them for her work, while Pandorgrad Mastergardener, who managed the gardens, claimed more.