Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy)

by James Mallory Mercedes Lackey

  Nor did her days become her own with the second bell rung at the end of the evening meal, for Maeredhiel ordered that the time between dinner and bed must be spent in the Servants’ Hall. The servants welcomed her as one of their own and Vieliessar discovered, to her surprise, that they were as proud of their service as any Warlord Prince of their domain. At first she sat stiff and silent until Maeredhiel released her to her sleeping chamber, but as spring and summer slipped away, she began to find among the servants the friends she had not made among the Candidates of her Service Year.

  It had taken her a long time to learn to sleep comfortably in the small austere room that was now hers—not because it lacked the luxuries she’d once taken for granted, perfumes and soft blankets and softer mattress—but because it was hers alone. In all her life, up until the moment Maeredhiel had walked out of the chamber, Vieliessar had never had a room entirely to herself. She grew to treasure those candlemarks when she didn’t have to be what someone expected to see, and could simply be.

  And though it wounded her pride sharply, Vieliessar admitted—if only within her heart—that her plans for revenge were better enacted by a woman than by a child. She would remain here for another year, or two, while Caerthalien forgot the very fact that she had ever existed.

  * * *

  “—and now it is Frost Moon, and it is one, two, three, four, five, six sennights to the middle of Snow Moon, and there will be dancing, and sweetcakes, and riddles—” Melwen singsonged, moving her round counter along the narshir board. She was one of the youngest of the Sanctuary servants—so Maeredhiel said—but Melwen could not number her years even if asked; she did not seek anything greater of her life than that each year should be like the last.

  Vieliessar stifled a sigh. In six sennights it would be Midwinter, and she knew no one at the Sanctuary celebrated the festival days that marked the turns of the Great Wheel. Last year she had been too angry to care, but this year all she could think of was what she would miss. At Caerthalien, Midwinter meant a whole sennight of feasts, each more elaborate than the last, and the Lightborn seeking the Light in those old enough. As was Harvest Court, Midwinter was a sennight in which no feuds could be started or vengeance taken, and everyone in the castel mingled freely, as if they were equals, for it was the custom for the highborn to put off their finery and wear the simple clothes of servants, and for the servants to put off the livery badges which indicated to which household they belonged.

  “—and fortunes, and farings, and songs,” Maeredhiel said, finishing the sentence without looking up from the tablet upon which she was figuring accounts, for what was in their stores must last through the winter, and Hamphuliadiel Astromancer must know what tithe-goods to ask of the Hundred Houses in the spring. “But you must remember, Melwen—Vieliessar has not yet been with us for a full turn of the year.”

  “You’ve never seen Midwinter, Vielle?” Melwen asked, sounding horrified. “We celebrate it every year, because we give thanks for the Light that kindles and will bring us new Candidates in Storm and Rain and Flower!”

  “And we give thanks for the chance to bring something out of the kitchens that is not the everlasting soup and porridge,” Mistress Morgaenel commented dryly. “If I did not get the chance to bake pies and roast venison once a year, I think I would go mad!”

  Vieliessar had been surprised to discover that many of the Sanctuary servants were wed. Mistress Morgaenel and Master Duirilthel were responsible for the kitchens, for overseeing the kitchen servants (a domestic meisne second in size only to Mastergardener Pandorgrad’s own, but augmented by many of the Candidates) and for feeding the hundreds of souls who resided at the Sanctuary of the Star. The two of them bickered constantly over which was Master (or Mistress) Cook and which one was Master (or Mistress) of the whole of the Kitchens, and Vieliessar had listened to them for an entire season before realizing the argument had been going on for centuries before her birth and would never be resolved until the two went before Queen Pelashia in the Vale of Celenthodiel to demand a judgment.

  It had never occurred to her that Morgaenel Mistress Cook (or Mistress Kitchen, depending on who told the tale) would grow as tired of creating their bland fare as they did of eating it.

  “And each Midwinter we pretend we do not see the Postulants sneak away to Rosemoss Farm, though some of them have done it for years,” Hamonglachele added merrily. It was Mistress ’Chele’s business to see that the guesthouse was kept in proper order, and she laughingly decried the shortcomings of all those who occupied it.

  “As you know full well, for you encourage them to sneak into my storehouses for sweets and gifts—and allow them to hide them beneath your roof once they have,” Duirilthel pointed out.

  “Whose storehouses, dearest heart?” Morgaenel asked with mock sweetness. “I am the Mistress of Kitchens, so they are my stores, I say.”

  “And again I am heartbroken to tell you, sweetest love, that skilled as you are in your craft, you are Mistress Cook, merely,” Duirilthel responded.

  The familiar bickering began again, and Vieliessar reached for the dice cup and turned back to her game. But now she thought of the coming Midwinter with curiosity and wonder instead of despair.

  * * *

  Soon enough Pandorgrad covered the spell-lantern, just as he did every night to signal the end of the evening. The Servants’ Hall was lit with Silverlight, but unless one were Lightborn, one could not simply kindle and snuff it at one’s convenience, so rather than living day and night amid the spell’s ghostly blue radiance, it was best to have it in a form one could shroud.

  At that wordless signal, Vieliessar got to her feet. The others would seek their beds here in the servants’ quarters, save for Radanding and his two ostlers, who slept at the stables. Only she must traverse the passages and staircases to her Postulant’s cell on the second floor, the thing that marked her as belonging neither to one place or the other.

  As she did nearly every night, Maeredhiel accompanied Vieliessar as she left the Servants’ Hall. Vieliessar had long since learned that Maeredhiel slept little, and spent most candlemarks after lantern-darkening checking to see that all in her domain was as she would wish it. Usually they parted at the foot of the first staircase, but tonight, when they reached the antechamber to the Shrine, Maeredhiel stopped.

  “A word with you, girl.”

  Vieliessar turned back, searching Maeredhiel’s face for some sign of the other’s wishes.

  “The Candidates—as you have cause to know—are kept close. But in six sennights, we shall all pretend that those we serve—Postulants and Lightborn both—do not slip away after dark to revel at Rosemoss Farm, just as they have done each Midwinter since the Sanctuary stones were laid. It would be a simple thing for you to join them. I say to you: you are Lady Nataranweiya’s child and War Prince Serenthon’s heir. Do not think it is a thing unknown.”

  Maeredhiel spoke of them as if they still lived, as if Farcarinon was more than a name and a wilderness. “I am heir to nothing,” Vieliessar answered, surprised by the grief she felt.

  “Think that if you must. Do you think Athrothir and Berthon kept what they knew to themselves? Outside these walls, your life is anyone’s to take.”

  “What loss could that be to anyone but me?” Vieliessar demanded.

  Maeredhiel smiled tightly. “Why, if Celelioniel did not hold it precious, she would never have saved it. Sleep well, Child of the Prophecy.”

  Maeredhiel turned and walked away. Vieliessar could have followed her, clutched at her sleeve, demanded answers. Why do you call me that again and again? What does it mean? What do you mean?

  But she knew she would lose her dignity, not her ignorance. Maeredhiel would not give answers unless she chose.

  And she does not choose! She merely seeks to torment me with hints and riddles!

  * * *

  At the Sanctuary, they did not celebrate Midwinter for an entire sennight, but Fourth Night was when the Light was Called, and on th
at night, there was a feast laid out in the Servants’ Hall of delicacies that never had—and never would—grace the tables in the refectory. Roast pork, venison, and chicken; meat pies of mutton and dove; glazed fruits, spiced fruits, fruit pies and honey-cakes; cordials and a dozen kinds of cider and spiced creamy xocalatl (part of Domain Amrolion’s tribute) hot enough in every sense to scorch the mouth.

  Even those who spent little time in the Servants’ Hall in the ordinary way of things were here tonight: all of Pandorgrad Mastergardener’s people, all the kitchen staff, and every one of the ostlers and farriers and horse-tenders who inhabited Radanding Stablemaster’s domain. The tables and chairs had been removed to make room for a long trestle table filled with food and drink and the Servants’ Hall was noisy and crowded, filled with talk and laughter and the honest yellow light of candles and oil lanterns. Vieliessar ate until she was full to bursting, only to discover there was more to come.

  A cheer went up as Morgaenel and Duirilthel entered with a tray so large it took both of them to carry it. Upon that tray was something large and round and white.

  “The luck! The luck of the year!” Several of those present raised their cups in a toast.

  “What is it?” Vieliessar asked in confusion, for the sweet-course had been upon the table for half the night.

  “Ah, I had forgotten you would not know the custom,” Maeredhiel said. “It is not kept in the castels, for it would not serve for any but the War Prince to receive the luck.”

  “What luck?” Vieliessar demanded, but Maeredhiel was already leading her to where a space had been cleared upon one of the tables for the cake.

  “Who is the youngest here?” Duirilthel asked, waving a cutting knife. “Is it Celeth? Lelras? Nidos? No! I think it must be Vielle!” He swept her a flourishing bow and presented her with the knife.

  “You must cut the cake now, and be sure everyone gets a piece,” Maeredhiel said. “And save yourself one as well.”

  The cake was heavy, filled with fruits and honey and cased in a thick sugar icing, but at last everyone had been served and all that remained upon the tray was crumbs.

  “I told you to save yourself some,” Maeredhiel said, holding out a napkin-wrapped piece. Vieliessar could smell the spices as she lifted it to her lips. The morsel was only a bite or two, for the cake, though large, had needed to serve many—and Vielle popped it into her mouth unthinkingly. A moment later her teeth closed upon something hard. She made a noise of dismay and spat whatever it was into her hand.

  On her palm rested a tiny silver disk with a rearing Unicorn stamped upon it.

  “I told you the one who received the silver luck-charm in their portion would gain fortune in the coming year,” Maeredhiel said. “And see? It is you.”

  Much fortune Farcarinon has gotten from the Unicorn thus far, Vieliessar thought sourly. For it was the Unicorn Throne that destroyed us.

  But it was a pretty thing nonetheless, so she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. Perhaps later she could find a way to braid it into her hair.

  The rich food made her sleepy, and it was not very long before she took her leave, for tomorrow would again be a day of labor. But despite everything, the secret Festival seemed to promise that her strange new life need not be one of everlasting penance. As she walked to her sleeping chamber, she wondered how many of the doors around her concealed empty beds whose inhabitants kept revel at Rosemoss Farm.

  Less than a mile from where I stand, and it might be at the far side of the Arzhana … But tonight, even thoughts of her demi-imprisonment failed to dampen her optimistic mood.

  She opened the door to her sleeping chamber. It was winter-cold, especially in contrast to the warm hall she’d just left, and she shivered as she crossed to the brazier. She kept a small bowl of embers on her windowsill, for true fire was something not much used in the Sanctuary and she had little patience with flint and steel. But tonight, the embers husbanded from the previous night’s coals had gone out.

  The brazier full of unkindled charcoals seemed to mock her, and she unconsciously stretched her fingers out toward it in the gesture she had seen so many times from one of the Lightborn. Fire, Maeredhiel had often said, was the first and simplest spell …

  What am I doing? Vieliessar withdrew her hand as quickly as if she’d been burned and turned to collect flint and steel. After a frustrating series of attempts, she managed to strike sparks to the bed of tinder beneath the coals, and the flames licked upward. Once warmth began to radiate through the room, she changed for bed.

  As she sat brushing out and rebraiding her hair, she realized that it was nearly two years since she had come to the Sanctuary of the Star. She could no longer remember the last time she had seriously plotted to escape. She had learned more than she’d thought in her time here, and everything she learned told her that escape, while not impossible, was futile. Caerthalien warred with Aramethali, Aramethali with Cirandeiron, Cirandeiron with Telthorelandor … and all with Farcarinon. Fall into the hands of any of the Hundred Houses and she would become a pawn-prisoner at best, a corpse at worst.

  It was a bitter knowing. She had not yet given up hope of revenge upon Caerthalien, but the day she might achieve it was farther away than ever.

  * * *

  Snow Moon gave way to Cold Moon and the Sanctuary returned to its normal rhythm. Cold became Ice, and everyone—even the Postulants—became unsettled with the anticipation of Rain Moon. The Candidates because the end of their Service Year would bring with it the knowledge of who was to stay and who was to go. The Postulants, for much the same reason, for soon those who were to leave the Sanctuary this year would be sent to keep Vigil in the Shrine. It was the time of year, Melwen said, when common sense was as rare as Unicorns, and anything might happen.

  Soon enough, Vieliessar discovered Melwen had spoken no more than the truth, for she spent an entire morning cleaning up a disaster in one of the stillrooms. She had not been told what had happened, but every jar and beaker had shattered, and the resulting slurry of salts and oils and herbs stank vilely. She brought sand to soak up the mess on the floor, and swept it up. She was careful not to let any of it touch her, but by the time Godrahir Lightsister, Mistress Stillroom, came by to check on her progress, the stench had given Vieliessar such a headache that the Lightsister took one look at her and told her to stop working and go into the garden for air. She went without thinking, even though she had not set foot outside the Sanctuary itself in nearly two full turns of the Wheel.

  The gate to the Sanctuary garden was a homely wooden thing. Beside its door, a peg-board held cloaks that any might use—for none of those living here owned such an item. A tray below was piled with wooden clogs, to be placed over the Sanctuary’s usual footgear: heavy wool socks soled with leather. Vieliessar took a cloak, slipped on a pair of clogs, and opened the door. As soon as she stepped away from the shelter of the wall, the wind began pulling at the cloak, forcing her to hold on to it. The air held the raw smells of earth and stone and Vieliessar shivered with the cold, though the sharp clear air eased her sick headache.

  It was strange to be in the open air after so long a time indoors. She walked the path into the garden as cautiously as if she crossed a bridge made of swordblades. Maeredhiel had been careful to explain that the gardens were not truly protected by the Peace of the Sanctuary, and so if someone wished to ride all the way to the Sanctuary of the Star to slay the last of Farcarinon, they might do so in the garden without incurring more than the annoyance of the Lightborn. Vieliessar thought it unlikely that the Night Brotherhood—if that secret guild of assassins were anything more than a nursery tale used to frighten willful children—would seek her out, and if trouble came, she was no more than a few hundred steps from one of the many doors leading to refuge.

  Once I dreamed of becoming a great warrior and riding all across the land with sword and bow. I promised myself Flower Forests to explore, stags to course, great hawks to fly at my leisure. Now my world is no wider than
these garden walls.

  The garden itself covered five hectares of land and was surrounded by a low stone wall. Within it stood trees usually found only in a Flower Forest, husbanded here by Magery: the namarii that gave its wood to Sanctuary spells, the uluskukad whose ghostly radiance lit the gardens at night, and in the center of the garden, an ancient Vilya, in full flower despite the season. The Vilya’s fruiting governed the reigns of the Astromancers, for the ever-flowering Vilya fruited only once a century, and across the land, foresters kept watch over the Vilya in their care and vyed to be first to bring word of its fruiting to their lord

  At the center of the garden Vieliessar stopped and turned in a slow circle, filling her eyes with all she saw. Beyond the wall lay the fields of Rosemoss Farm. In a fortnight or so, spring plowing would begin there, but for now, all there was to see was the greyed stubble of last year’s harvesting. Beyond the fields stood Arevethmonion Flower Forest. All the way to the edge of the Flower Forest everything was grey and dun-gold. Only the forest itself was green, as Flower Forests always were.

  To the left of the Sanctuary’s main gate was the guesthouse and stables. They might as well be in the Vale of Celenthodiel for all that Vieliessar would ever go there. The low stone wall was the boundary of her world. And so it would be until the end of her days, unless she fled into a life where death was her constant companion.

  A year ago she’d raged against her confinement. This year she’d thought herself growing content with something that would—somehow, someday—end. Now she knew that contentment for a false calm—for to be locked away galled her spirit as much as if she wore a red-hot crown of barbed iron. The Silver Hooves punished cowardice. Queen Pelashia turned her face from those forsworn. Vieliessar had sworn to avenge Farcarinon, and she could not yet say if she was a coward or an oathbreaker, but she feared she was. How could she do what she had sworn? And how could she face the long centuries ahead of her if she let the name of Farcarinon vanish into the shadows?