Crown of Vengeance dpt-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  “But I—I ran off a steading. And Belgund—he broke parole when his lord wouldn’t ransom him. And Findron—”

  “I don’t care,” Vieliessar said. “Keep my law. Keep my peace. Fight for me. You’ll be fed, clothed, and housed as well as any in my army and treated no differently than any other of my people.”

  Nadalforo blinked several times, trying to make sense of what obviously sounded to her like madness. “We’re mercenaries—or we were. You could—”

  “No,” Vieliessar said quickly. “I hire no mercenaries. Swear to me. Or leave my lands—and know that the next time we meet I will kill you all.”

  “But … how do you know you can trust me—or any of us?” Nadalforo asked desperately.

  “Break your oath to me and see,” Vieliessar said. “I do not think you will. Shall we see?”

  “I—I—I guess we will,” Nadalforo answered.

  * * *

  Nadalforo—once First Sword of Stonehorse Free Company—was neither the first nor the last to pledge to Vieliessar. Taille by taille, Vieliessar built her army through the sennights of winter. Snow Moon became Cold Moon, Ice Moon, Storm Moon. By Storm, nine moonturns had passed since she had claimed Oronviel and the other War Princes had done little to indicate they feared her. Now the Ninety-and-Nine were preparing for War Season once more—and not with Oronviel. They would discuss her plans with one another beneath truce-flags all summer, and then plot at Midwinter Court to perhaps attack her the following year.

  “You’ve told every prince in the land you mean to take the Unicorn Throne. Do you think Caerthalien will hear and do nothing?” Rithdeliel’s voice in her memory, crackling with frustration.

  Yes, she answered mentally. I think they will delay and delay until it is too late.

  In another wheel of the seasons, she would be High King, or she would be dead.

  * * *

  The scent of fresh-cut timber filled her nostrils as Vieliessar rode along the road which led to the keep. The village she had designed to hold—and train—her patchwork army was rising as quickly as grain stalks in summer. The village now occupied both sides of the road—vulnerable and indefensible if an enemy army or even raiders came; a liability in the defense of the keep itself, for it sprawled across the open land that had once surrounded Oronviel Keep, providing concealment for enemies and a hazard to defenders. But if the winter moonturns had brought a trickle of exiles flocking to Oronviel’s standard, then Storm brought a flood. Not merely outlaws and Landbonds, now, but craftworkers and Farmholders and Lightborn. Even lesser knights, coming with wives, husbands, children, and all they could bring away from their own domains. They came—every one of them—to fight not for Oronviel, but for Vieliessar.

  Vieliessar High King, who promised them justice and an end to war.

  She had spent the morning riding the bounds of the Battle City. The whole of it extended through the manor houses and farmsteads nearest the keep; a large area, and one where it was important that she show herself frequently. Those who occupied the city—former mercenaries, former outlaws, the children of Farmholders—would not approach her stewards or komen with their grievances, but would bring them straight to her.

  The weight of their trust was sometimes the most oppressive thing of all. She longed for a day or two of quiet that she knew she would not get. Her court understood the business of treaties and alliances and pacts, but Serenthon had never asked Farcarinon to host the armies of his allies as if they were his own, nor sent his own knights to serve at the courts of his sometime-enemies. If that had been all she asked of them, it would have been difficult enough—but she also wished them to welcome, and even fight beside, those whom they would have gladly whipped from their halls for the presumption of speaking. As a child and even as a Green Robe, she had thought the War Princes lived lives of leisure and freedom. Now she knew that was only an illusion, a shadow cast by the power each domain lord held in his or her hands. Power could gain one a great many things, but it must be carefully and consciously nurtured.

  It is a sharp sword and a heavy fetter, and I have taken up the blade and set the shackles on my own wrists.

  She swung down from Sorodiarn’s back in the castel stables, fleetingly grateful for the privilege of rank that permitted her to keep her horses close to hand. There was little room within a Great Keep’s walls for beasts. Leaving the destrier in the hands of Fierdind Horsemaster, she proceeded to her rooms, cloaking herself in Shadow as she strode from the stable. It was a dangerous indulgence, but she had no desire to be stopped to answer a hundred questions today. She reached her rooms—there were no Guardsmen at her door when she was believed to be elsewhere—and stepped inside.

  As the door closed behind her, she felt a sudden surge of the Light. She dropped her hand to her swordhilt, preparing every defense she could. She still dared do nothing that would mark her as Lightborn, even if it meant injury or worse. But the figure who appeared as the Cloakspell vanished was …

  “Thurion!” she exclaimed.

  He was muddy and bedraggled, and—more alarming than that—dressed not in the Green Robes of Magery, but clothes such as any upper servant might wear.

  “I cry Sanctuary of Oronviel,” he said, in a voice that shook with exhaustion. “Will Prince Vieliessar grant this boon?”

  “Of course,” she said instantly. “But— What is it? What has happened?”

  “Hamphuliadiel…” Thurion said. He fell gracelessly into the nearest chair.

  “What has Hamphuliadiel done?” she demanded.

  “He has said he will not step aside as Astromancer,” Thurion said numbly. “He says he will surrender his place only when the Vilya in the Sanctuary’s own garden bears fruit—and he would not even have said so much so soon if Ivrulion Light-Prince had not been there to compel him! He swears this is no new ruling, but a return to the earliest practice by which the reigns of the Astromancers were calculated.”

  “Mosirinde Peacemaker would be surprised to hear it,” Vieliessar answered dryly.

  She sent for food, made tea, and learned the whole of what Thurion had to tell. Forester Lonthorn was not the only one in the Fortunate Lands who could predict the fruiting of the Vilya. Caerthalien, seeing a new Astromancer was imminent, had sent Ivrulion Light-Prince to the Sanctuary as soon as the roads could be traveled. He had obtained Hamphuliadiel’s answer in secret, but he’d Farspoken it to Carangil Lightbrother, and the news had spread from there to most of the castel Lightborn.

  And Thurion had risked everything to bring it to her.

  “He’s lying! There was never such a practice! And I don’t think the Vilya in the Sanctuary garden will ever fruit!” Thurion announced, pacing in agitation.

  “I’d be very surprised if it did,” Vieliessar replied, raising her eyebrows. “What I wonder is why he wants to remain Astromancer. It isn’t a position that holds a great deal of power, and if he wants riches and luxury, he can get that at any court.”

  “No,” Thurion said, his voice troubled. “You’re wrong, Vielle. There is power in the office of Astromancer—if the one who holds it is dishonorable enough to grasp it. You have seen it yourself.” He paused expectantly.

  “When he charged the Lightborn of all the land to deliver me to his hand?” she asked, for that was what was foremost in Thurion’s thoughts. “What I have seen is Hamphuliadiel showing himself a fool.”

  “No,” Thurion said patiently. “It did not work, that is true, for we swear fealty to our lords, not to the Astromancer. But if Hamphuliadiel has century after century to convince all who are trained at the Sanctuary that their first loyalty must be to the Light Itself, and that he knows better than they how they may best serve it—”

  Then the Sanctuary of the Star will become the new Hundredth House.…

  “I would be more troubled by Hamphuliadiel of Haldil’s ambitions if I thought he had a chance of achieving them,” Vieliessar answered bluntly. “Thurion,” she said gently, “if I am High King, I will de
al with Hamphuliadiel. If I am not, the Darkness surely will. His ambitions do not matter, save in how we can make use of them.”

  “And if he moves more quickly than you think?” Thurion demanded. “It is true that those who are sent to the Sanctuary each spring are unimportant in the eyes of the War Princes—save for whom we might become if the Light favors us—but if Hamphuliadiel holds the Candidates hostage, the War Princes must attack or they will seem timid and weak. They cannot attack the Sanctuary, so they will seek another target against which to display their power. And if refusing to give up the Candidates is not enough, Hamphuliadiel can deny access to the Shrine of the Star.”

  “Arevethmonion is not the only Shrine,” Vieliessar said.

  “I suppose you think the Hundred Houses will go to Tilinaparanwira the Lost to make their offerings?” Thurion said in exasperation. “Most of them don’t even know there are Nine Shrines—and don’t imagine their Lightborn know any more! Delfierarathadan is too dangerous to seek; Tilinaparanwira is lost; Oiolairwe, Teriqualanweore, and Mirinandwe are beyond the Feinolons—”

  “Nomiatemil is in the Mystrals, and I suppose you will go on to say that because there is no guesthouse at Manostar nor pleasant gardens at Earime’kalareinya they will not do either?”

  Thurion flung himself into a chair and regarded her with irritation. “I say that since the time of Mosirinde Peacemaker, the sacrifices have been offered at Arevethmonion and the Lightborn have gone there to be trained. If Hamphuliadiel denies access to the Shrine of the Star, the princes will not think that there are seven other places they can go. They will think Hamphuliadiel plots to punish them for not delivering you back into his hands.”

  “Doesn’t he?” Vieliessar said. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to think. In the Sanctuary’s library she’d studied war, and in all the centuries the Hundred Houses had fought, Magery had never been a consideration in their plotting. But Thurion was right. Hamphuliadiel had taken the first step toward becoming a prince of the land in his own right. She must assume he would take the next, and the next. And the moment he did, the War Princes would panic.

  And she would be their target.

  “If I can make it seem that Hamphuliadiel’s actions—whatever they are—are taken in secret alliance with Oronviel, the War Princes should delay any attack they contemplate,” she said slowly. “I know Hamphuliadiel. Even if he means to hold hostages, he cannot let that be known until the last caravan has brought its Candidates and departed. By then, this season’s new Lightborn will have left as well. Then he may do as he wishes, and it will be a moonturn or two before anyone notices.”

  “Yes,” Thurion said, nodding. “The War Princes send to make the victory sacrifices when they send the Candidates, and then they go to war. It will not be until Fire or Harvest that they will wish access to the Shrine of the Star again. Now: how will you convince the other Houses that Hamphuliadiel plots with Oronviel?”

  “Simple enough,” Vieliessar answered. “I shall send Thoromarth immediately to bring away everyone from Oronviel—it will not seem impossible to Hamphuliadiel that I am so unused to ruling that I cannot gather Oronviel’s Candidates in a timely fashion. I shall send Ambrant Lightbrother with him to take my word to those of Oronviel who are already in training. The Postulants know a thousand ways to sneak out of the Sanctuary when they are supposed to be in their beds—as you well know—and Hamphuliadiel has no precedent for holding them against their will. Ambrant’s Keystone Gift is True Speech; his shields will defeat Hamphuliadiel’s attempts to hear his mind, and Thoromarth will swear to any who ask that the Oronviel Candidates come soon, for that is what I will tell him, and beg his pardon for the lie when he returns. And so it will be seen that this year, two Houses of all the Ninety-and-Nine have not sent their Candidates to the Sanctuary: Oronviel and Ivrithir.”

  “But how will you— Ivrithir?” Thurion said, startled.

  “War Prince Atholfol has pledged himself to support Farcarinon’s claim to the High Kingship,” Vieliessar answered. “On my word, he will withhold this year’s Candidates. I must see which of his Lightborn I may send to the Sanctuary with Ambrant, for the Ivrithir Candidates will not come away at Oronviel’s word.”

  Thurion sat brooding over her words for a long stretch of silence. “If you do this, it will seem that—whatever Hamphuliadiel does—you knew of it beforehand,” he said at last. “But you will lose what new Lightborn you might have gained—” He gestured helplessly. “If the Postulants must come away without daring the Shrine—”

  “There are other Shrines,” Vieliessar said once again. “For the rest, we shall simply return to the actual earliest practices of the Lightborn, when there was no Sanctuary and no single place of learning. Until there is a new Astromancer, Oronviel’s Lightborn will train her Lightborn-to-be.”

  The High King’s Lightborn will train her Lightborn-to-be.

  * * *

  It took her most of a day to persuade Ambrant Lightbrother not merely to do what she wished him to, but to do it with utmost guile. If Thurion had not been there to swear that Hamphuliadiel would refuse to step down as Astromancer, she would undoubtedly still be arguing with him. She wished she could send Aradreleg Lightsister or Peryn Lightsister, or most of all, Harwing Lightbrother, who had found a joyous heart-twin in Gunedwaen, and now served as one of the Swordmaster’s most effective spies. But none of them had True Speech as their Keystone Gift: any shields they set about their minds and thoughts, Hamphuliadiel would be able to force.

  She spoke with Atholfol in cautious elliptical messages sent by spellbird. Both Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen believed Farcarinon’s old war codes unbroken, and Serenthon had used a different cipher for each of his allies. Atholfol had agreed to withhold this year’s Candidates if Oronviel would swear to undertake their training—and to send his sealed writ by messenger to Thoromarth so those of Ivrithir who were to leave the Sanctuary this season would know it was safe to journey with Oronviel’s party.

  But he would not give her an Ivrithir Lightborn to call his Postulants away.

  And perhaps I, too, would be skeptical, had I not such long and intimate knowledge of Hamphuliadiel’s mind. Very well. I have warned him, at least.

  * * *

  She had known since before she left the Sanctuary of the Star that the time she would have to work in would be short, for she had squandered too many precious years seeking to avoid her destiny. Once Thurion fled Caerthalien, she knew she would have to work more quickly still, for the moment his presence in Oronviel was known, Caerthalien had the pretext it needed to attack her out of season. Very soon—in a moonturn, perhaps two—her war would begin, and she would not ride into such a desperately important battle without making a sacrifice to the Starry Hunt and petitioning Them for victory.

  She could not go to the Sanctuary of the Star.

  But as she had told Thurion, the Sanctuary did not hold the only Shrine.

  In the candlemark before dawn, Vieliessar walked from the keep and down the path which led to the oldest part of the craftworkers’ village. No dog barked to warn of her passage, no goose bugled a warning. She had a long way to go before the sun rose and she would not take Sorodiarn to this appointment. Her destination was the paddocks beyond the stables. Spring was the season to begin a young horse’s training, so it could be exposed to the sounds and smells of battle long before it must stand steady before them. From among the drowsing animals she selected two: a young bay mare, already under saddle, and a pure white colt. She knew Fierdind Horsemaster meant to train Phadullu for her use in case Sorodiarn was killed, but she needed him now. She mounted the mare bareback and rode away in the darkness; the colt followed tamely.

  Mornenamei was the nearest Flower Forest to the castel, and she would need Lord Mornenamei’s aid for the morning’s work. She reached Mornenamei and vaulted down from the mare’s back. The mare could be left here to graze: she would not go far, and if anyone happened upon her, the silver token
braided into her mane would mark her as belonging to the castel stables. Vieliessar patted Phadullu on the shoulder and he followed her docilely as she walked into Mornenamei.

  A combination of homesickness and longing assaulted her as she felt the Flower Forest’s magic enfold her. Her happiness at the Sanctuary of the Star had been dearly bought, but it had been real. She could not imagine there would ever be such happiness for her again.

  Ruthlessly she banished those thoughts from her mind. Time enough to mourn her life when she had fulfilled the role Amrethion High King had set forth for her to play. Ten steps, then twenty, then twenty more, then she swung herself up onto Phadullu’s back. She nudged him forward at a gentle walk, and before he had gone a dozen paces, the Flower Forest through which he walked was far away from Oronviel.

  She could Sense the Shrine the moment she filled her lungs with the air of Earime’kalareinya. She’d chosen it because Manostar was merely a notation in the histories, its location given as “somewhere in Tunimbronor.” There were accounts of visits to Earime’kalareinya, for many of the Land-Shrines had continued to receive visitors for some centuries after Mosirinde Peacemaker established the Sanctuary of the Star.

  She dismounted again and walked onward. The day was brighter here than in Mornenamei, for she had gone toward the sun. She followed the currents of power until she reached the heart of Earime’kalareinya.

  The three stones that marked the Place of Power looked somehow more stark and wild surrounded by the lushness of the Flower Forest than they did in the careful concealment of the Shrine of the Star. The stones are as weathered as if they stand upon a desolate plain, she realized a moment later, though this deep within Earime’kalareinya, wind and rain could barely reach them. A flat stone lay on the ground between them, and someone was still making offerings here, for the stone was smeared with blood that rain and time had not yet erased.