Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy)

by James Mallory Mercedes Lackey

  “Yet you shall. For you are Farcarinon.”

  Each syllable the Rider spoke resounded through her as if it were the beat of a great war drum. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as hard as if she’d been running, as slow as if she were in deep meditation. It was three heartbeats before she answered, and she only understood the sense of her words as she heard them, for it seemed as if she merely recited a speech someone else had crafted.

  “Farcarinon is gone. There is only I.” Farcarinon will endure until the end of my life—but I am only one—but how shall I end You—but why would I wish to?

  The Rider inclined His head as if He had heard both the words she spoke and the words she had not. It was the grave salute that prince might give to prince, and for the first time, Vieliessar felt fear. No, not fear—terror. The weight of the Rider’s pronouncement, the Rider’s grief, was a palpable thing, making her body tremble with a burden too great for mortal flesh to bear. Who am I that the power which shapes our lives and our destiny should regard me thus?

  “You are Farcarinon,” the Rider said. “Death in life. Life in death.” In the Rider’s words Vieliessar heard more than simple recognition. There was judgment—and sorrow. “You will be known when We are forgotten,” He added, and raised His hand. Salute, benediction, warning … she did not know.

  In the next moment her sight became uncertain, as if she gazed not into shadow, but into the brightness of the sun itself. Her eyes were filled with light and her ears with a sound as if a whole army roared out its battle cry, and she could not say in that moment if she stood upon the ground or rode through the heavens on a destrier made of moonlight and shod with stars. Someone shouted in a language she did not know and for an instant it seemed she gazed down from a great height at a landscape of darkness, of ice and shadow. Before her hung a balefire, burning star-pale with magic. A komen knelt beside it, and with him stood a creature neither Trueborn nor Beastling, with blood welling in the palm of her hand.

  “The Land calls you. The People call you. I call you. He Who Is would return to the world, and so we summon you.”

  “And will you spill your own blood to save the land?”

  The creature—woman, but nub-eared and red-skinned as no Trueborn could ever be—held out her wounded palm to the Rider, as if her blood held a compulsion even He must obey. Even her blood was strange, for it was red as flowers.…

  * * *

  Vieliessar came to herself with the stiff and aching limbs of one who has spent too long motionless in too cold a place. As she raised her head, she could see the sky above was grey with dawn. She clambered to her feet, clutching at one of the standing stones to steady herself before she remembered what she touched.

  Dream? Vision? In this moment she could not say whether what she had seen was truth or the expression of her own buried desires. Does the Hunt always come? Do the Silver Hooves bow down to each of the Lightborn? Is this how all who come to this place are tested and tried? Had she given the proper answers? Or was she dead even now, a homeless ghost, doomed to vanish like morning frost the moment she stepped from the Shrine?

  Vieliessar looked toward the doors of the Shrine and spied a bundle of green cloth, placed there by some Lightborn candlemarks before the beginning of her vigil. She turned back to the Shrine and saw the print of a hand deep-sunk into the ancient altar stone. Slowly she reached out and set her hand into its shape. It fit as if the eternal stone had been as malleable as bread dough and shifted at her touch. She felt the weight of an unimaginable fate bearing her down. For an instant a thousand evasions crowded her mind: to leave the Sanctuary of the Star this very candlemark, to keep moving until she left the bounds of the Fortunate Lands completely; to offer up her name, her House, her life, as a sacrifice to unmake this destiny.

  She could. But …

  Serenthon knew his fate. Celelioniel foretold it when he came here.

  In that moment of realization it seemed to her she could see him: Serenthon Farcarinon, War Prince, First among the Hundred Houses, bold and beautiful and arrogant. He had known before he began he would fail. He had known his Bondmate would die, that Farcarinon would be unmade, that all who had trusted him would die …

  That someday his daughter would stand here, to be Sealed to the Light.

  If Serenthon-my-father could embrace such a fate for himself and all he loved, then I shall not disgrace him.

  She lifted her hand from the imprint in the stone and walked steadily to the doors of the Shrine, tying the knotted flaxen cord about her waist as she went. Custom said she must now return to the domain of her birth and there present herself to the Chief Lightborn of the War Prince’s court. But she was Farcarinon, and the officers of her father’s court were slain or fled. So she picked up the green robes that lay upon the stone and carried them, still naked, back to her sleeping cell. She took up a knife and cropped her long black hair close to her head, then donned the Green Robe, tightening the silver cord about her waist. Then she sat upon her bed and waited for someone to come and tell her who she must become now.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE VEILED PATH

  Then spoke Berendriel, Notariel’s Heir: I do not set my foot upon Your stirrup, I do not set my hand upon Your horse. I shall not ride the night wind, nor leave my House, my komen, or my kin.

  And the Star-Crowned, Hunt-Lord, Master of the Silver-Shod answered: As you say, so it will be. Your name shall be no longer Berendriel but Mazhnune. You shall battle forever, a hungry ghost, and never will you die and never will you live.

  —Berendriel’s Song

  “Fall back! Fall back!”

  “Stand!”

  Thurion Lightbrother waited at the edge of the battlefield. His mare’s thoughts were a background hum in his mind. Sariar was wise in the ways of battle, and knew there was no danger here for her, even though the din of battle made Thurion wish to cover both his ears and hers. It wouldn’t help. True Speech brought him the thoughts of the komen bell-clear above the screams of the wounded, the battle cries, the thunder of drums, and the clash of metal upon metal.

  The wind was sharp with the first stirrings of autumn. On Menenel Farmholder’s land the sky would have been bright and clear, for the Lightborn worked their weather magic over the Farmholds to provide fair weather for the last sennights before harvest, keeping the rain from the fields until the year’s crop was safely housed in barn and mill. They worked no such Magery over the battlefields. The sky was grey with low clouds, the wind harsh with the promise of rain before sunset. If it did rain, the fighting would not stop. Injuries would increase as warriors attacked blindly and destriers slipped on the uncertain ground.

  Would it be any different if I and my brethren were not here? If the komentai’a—if the War Princes—knew injury could bring a lingering death or a lifetime of agony? In the Sanctuary they say we are the essence of the peace of the Fortunate Lands. I sometimes think we bring war, not peace.

  He remembered his first battle, so many years ago now. His teachers at the Sanctuary had told him over and over of the necessity to shield himself, to refuse to hear the minds around him. He hadn’t truly understood why until the moment when Caerthalien and Oronviel took the field against Aramenthiali and Ivrithir, he had thought he would go mad—from the noise of sword against shield, from the clamor of mind-voices, from the agony of the wounded and the dying.

  He had heard it all, on that first of many battlefields.

  He had never learned to deafen himself to the sounds.

  Today Caerthalien fought against Ullilion. The combat would have been uneven save for the fact that Ullilion—somehow—had gained wealth enough to summon the best of the Free Companies to its banner: between them, Foxhaven and Glasswall had brought four thousand swords to the field, and Blue Deer had come with another twelve hundred. Now Prince Domcariel of Caerthalien was calling for the Caerthalien komentai’a to retreat, while Prince Runacarendalur was demanding they stand. With each engagement they fought, the rif
t between the brothers widened: Runacarendalur, brilliant and imaginative, leading his komentai’a to battle as if to a festival dance; his brother Domcariel, cautious and traditional, slow to adapt to an enemy’s change in tactics. Days of fighting the enemy on the battlefield became nights of fighting each other in pavilion and castel. Thurion had seen too much of it. The Lightborn were invisible, like the servants.

  He’d imagined his life would be different when the Light was Called in him. Everyone knew the Lightborn were the equals of princes, their spells vital to the wealth and security of their House. All the storysongs said the Green Robe erased kinship and caste, allowing the lowliest Landbond to drink from the same cup as his War Prince at the high table.

  Like so many tales, it was both true and not true. The great lords venerated their Lightborn and gave them pride of place in their halls. The Lightborn negotiated treaties and terms of surrender, and moved freely between House and House, carrying messages. Some might counsel their lords and their alakomentai’a. But no Lightborn bore weapons in battle, and skill at arms was the measure of worth in the Hundred Houses, so none of them—even Ivrulion Light-Prince—had true power.

  Thurion watched as Prince Runacarendalur’s meisne surged forward, piercing the Ullilion line and striking for its standard-bearer, for War Prince Dendinirchiel Ullilion had taken the field in person, with Athagor, her consort-prince, beside her as her shieldbearer. To cause Dendinirchiel to yield—or to slay her outright—would bring a swift Caerthalien victory. But in a moment Runacarendalur would be surrounded, for Blue Deer’s warriors were riding out from Ullilion’s tuathal flank, and Prince Domcariel still hesitated. A moment more and Runacarendalur would be lost.

  But at the last possible moment, Domcariel spurred his mount in the direction of his brother’s battle standard and the knights of his taille followed. True Speech gave Thurion his words, but he would have known what they were even without it: Caerthalien and the star! Caerthalien!

  Suddenly Thurion saw a familiar flicker of light upon the field—the cast-aside sword of a Caerthalien knight, the signal its owner was leaving the field. He turned to Sariar and swung gracefully into her saddle—the komen would need escort to the Healing Tents—but just as he prepared to urge the mare onto the field, another Lightborn galloped past and sent her mount dancing quickly through the battle itself.

  Narcheliel. It must be her.

  Narcheliel Lightsister took dangerous chances. It was true that any komen would not knowingly strike one of the Lightborn. It was also true that it was nearly impossible to separate friend from foe in the heat of battle. He saw her gain the side of the yielding knight, laughing as she did so. It was Celethor, one of Domcariel’s taille.

  He’d taken his eyes from the larger battle for only a few moments, but that had been time enough for Caerthalien—and Runacarendalur—to gain the victory. There was a great roaring as everyone on the field shouted at once—in joy or in sorrow—and Thurion saw Ullilion’s banner fall in surrender. The Caerthalien warhorns sounded: Victory, victory, victory. After their call had died away, the Ullilion horns sounded, calling their komen back to their lines. The two armies disengaged, then both sides sounded the last call of the day: Search for the wounded.

  Sighing, Thurion swung down from Sariar’s back and led her toward the place in the horselines where the palfreys were kept. To clear the field of those who could not seek Healing under their own power was the task of servants, not Lightborn. There would be work enough for his hands and the Light as soon as the Caerthalien forces returned to camp.

  There always was.

  The nobles threw themselves into celebration as soon as they returned to camp. The Lightborn did not. Even Ivrulion Light-Prince toiled in the Healing Tents while his father and brothers celebrated. The Lightborn worked as they always did, measuring their labor against the power they drew from the Flower Forests, and ending their night’s toil when to continue would be to take too much. But even those who could not be Healed immediately must be tended, lest their injuries grow worse.

  Many Lightborn chose to leave such tasks to servants, but Thurion liked to know what Healings he would be called upon to do later, so even after no more Healing could be done that day, he worked beside the servants as they washed limbs, bandaged wounds, and dosed the injured with cordials that would take away pain, reduce fever, or give dreamless sleep. Caerthalien had gained the victory near noonday, but it was long past sunset when Thurion left the Healing Tents.

  The night was windless but the air was chill, and he shivered. Let this be the last battle Caerthalien will fight until spring. Thurion could not hope it would be the last battle Caerthalien would ever fight, for the Hundred circled around one another like dogs around a piece of meat. Perhaps someday I shall not have to watch it as it happens, he thought tiredly. But that day was centuries distant: only those Lightborn far advanced in years—or so favored they need not contend with the rigors of a battlefield encampment—did not ride with the army in War Season.

  Thurion shivered again. The warm cloak he’d worn to watch the battle had been taken by his bodyservant when he gone to the Healing Tents, and Denerarth had undoubtedly returned the cloak to Thurion’s tent, as he always did. Thurion might have stepped back into the warmth of the Healing Tent he’d just left and sent one of the other camp servants for it, but he could never bring himself to order others around as if by right. He took a moment to gain his bearings, then began to walk toward the Lightborn tents. The pavilions of the camp were pitched in the same places every time—had been, Thurion suspected, since the days of High King Amrethion Aradruiniel.

  But no. In the days of High King Amrethion there was no battle or strife. How I wish I had lived in those days. It would be pleasant never to have to hear the cries of the injured, see the damage hooves and weapons could do. At least Vielle is spared this. His path led him past the great pavilion where the victory feast was going on. Within it, he could hear, as he’d expected, Runacarendalur’s voice raised in anger, Domcariel trying to shout him down, and Ivrulion saying just the wrong thing at the wrong moment—by intent, Thurion knew for a fact. Beneath their voices, like the deep resonant counterpoint of a complex work of music, he could hear Lord Bolecthindial rebuking his warrior sons. Thurion determinedly focused on his own thoughts, refusing to hear the words, both said and unsaid. It would do him little good to know his masters that intimately.

  He would think of Vielle instead. She had power such as Thurion could barely imagine. Power to have every spell she learned burn as strong in her as if it were her Keystone Gift. He wondered if she had kept the knowledge of how far she could surpass them from her teachers until the day she dared the Shrine.

  He’d left the Sanctuary while she was still a Postulant, but time had once again made them friends. He had needed that time to recover from the shock and disappointment of discovering she’d wanted to hide herself from embracing the greatest joy he could imagine. In the end, he had understood—she’d been content as a Sanctuary servant, and to become Lightborn made her life uncertain and potentially dangerous.

  So she had complained of her teachers in her letters, and the Lightborn had gossiped in his hearing, and from those things Thurion had pieced together the truth. As powerful as Pelashia Celenthodiel, mother of all magic. And none of those in the Sanctuary knew. I’m not sure Vielle truly knows, even now. Light grant she has no cause to find out, for if she does, it will be because disaster has befallen her.

  The extent of her power would only be tested if she were to leave the Sanctuary of the Star, for outside its shelter she would need to call upon all her Lightborn arts to preserve her life.

  “Master Thurion! You should have sent for me!”

  Thurion blinked, realizing he’d reached his own pavilion.

  “I’ve told you how many times not to call me that?” he asked, with no hope his wish would be heeded any more on this occassion than it’d been the last thousand times.

  “As many times as I�
��ve ignored you, Master Thurion,” Denerarth answered. “As you would know full well had the cold not addled your wits. But I suppose if you are too cloudwitted to send a servant for me—and for your cloak—you cannot be expected to remember such things. Come! Inside before you freeze quite to death! And I suppose you have not eaten since this morning?”

  Thurion’s tent was a pavilion only by courtesy, for it was so small that there was only room for him and Denerarth, but compared to the hut Thurion had grown up in, it was both spacious and private. Silverlight made the interior as bright as day, and a brazier lent it welcome heat. He sniffed, catching the scents of both Summerbark tea and pear cider on the warm air.

  “You know I have not,” he answered, sitting down on a stool to pull off his boots. “I was working. But I hope you have.”

  “Oh indeed. Fine feeding from the prince’s own victory table,” Denerarth said. “Where you should have been.”

  “I told you, I was busy,” Thurion answered mildly. Denerarth made an exasperated noise and paused to drape Thurion’s warmed cloak about his shoulders before pouring a mug of steaming cider and placing it in his hand.

  “And will be just as busy come the morrow,” Denerarth said.

  “If the Flower Forest is restored. If we are not to move the camp. If—”

  “As you know full well, we’ll be here another fortnight, while Ullilion ransoms its knights and settles the surrender provisions. And as you know that, why try to Heal everyone now? There’s plenty of time before we break camp.”

  “Yes, yes, yes—plenty of time. But why should they suffer longer than they must?” It was an argument they had each time—and would probably have until one or the other of them died. Thurion supposed he was lucky to have a servant who was neither overawed by him nor who refused to serve a Landbond’s son.

  “If they’re suffering, Master Thurion, then Night’s Daughter is not the anodyne she is rumored to be. Now drink. I’ve warmed your bed for you, and there’s cheese and meat pie if you’ve any appetite.”