“An important point we would all do well to remember,” Ladyholder Edheleorn said, her light voice breaking the tension of the moment. “Prince Runacarendalur is to be commended for bringing it to our attention.”
“I still find it hard to understand what the upstart gains,” War Prince Clacheu Denegathaiel said. “She approached us asking to surrender. Why these sennights of games if she never meant to negotiate in good faith?”
“It bought her time,” War Prince Ferorthaniel Sarmiorion said. Sarmiorion was one of two High Houses east of the Mystrals. “She took Mangiralas. The Less Houses of the West went mad. We heard rumors of treaties with the Houses of the Western Shore, though we could not confirm that. Then … nothing. Until Gatriadde arrives, offering to give us her army. And suddenly she begs to parley.”
“But what has she done with this time?” Lady Girelrian asked. “She cannot expect us to leave her in peace to winter in Mangiralas.”
“I’m not finished,” Ferorthaniel said. “Her treaty with Ivrithir required them to assign their claim to the Unicorn Throne to her, as did her treaty with Laeldor. We can assume her treaties with Amrolion and Daroldan are similar. She’s counting on us not attacking the Western Shore, and she’s right, for it would be madness to weaken our only defenders against the Beastlings. Araphant she holds absolutely, as she does Oronviel. Ullilion has declared for her, and as for the rest of the Western Less Houses …
“Either they have declared for her or are simply in rebellion. We do not know, and if we do not, she does not. But their rebellion caused us to form this unprecedented alliance, and once she got word of our alliance, she knew she couldn’t risk being attacked by our conjoined force. That’s why she offered a surrender.”
“Which was a ruse. But what does a moonturn or two of delay gain her?” Lord Clacheu said. “It isn’t as if we’ll forget about her.”
Ferorthaniel smiled. “No. But you’ve forgotten one thing Sarmiorion never can. In three moonturns, the passes over the Mystrals become difficult. In two more, impassable. I’ll wager anything you like she’s taken her army east, whether you’ve seen it move or not. She’ll winter in the Uradabhur, and I don’t think she’ll sit quiet when the end of War Season comes. I think she’ll fight through the winter. By spring, she’ll probably hold the thirty Houses of the Uradabhur in vassalage.
“If you can’t keep your client domains loyal when you’re camped on their doorstep, what success will you have when she is there and you’re on the other side of the mountains, waiting for spring thaw?”
“How kind of you to warn us in advance you’re planning to betray us,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel snapped.
“If you think that, you are truly mad,” Ferorthaniel said. “Do you think I came west for my health? Even a lion cannot stand against a pack of wolves. Sarmiorion is the only High House in the Uradabhur, and the Uradabhur will fall by spring. Mark me when I say it.”
“So do we all surrender now?” Runacarendalur asked angrily. “Bend the knee and bow the neck to a madwoman of an erased House who thinks she’s the fulfillment of a prophecy that no one’s ever been able to make sense of? And what happens to us—to everything—when we crown her High King?”
“It is not my intention to permit Serenthon’s daughter to claim the prize we denied to Serenthon,” Lord Bolecthindial growled.
“Then choose,” Ferorthaniel said inexorably. “Follow her across the Mystrals now, knowing you must fight through the winter—and know you will have the west to reconquer next springtide—or let her take the Uradabhur while you make sure of the west, and know she will meet you next War Season with an unstoppable army at her back.”
“Aramenthiali rides east at once,” Lord Manderechiel said, getting to his feet.
“As does Caerthalien,” Lord Bolecthindial said, answering the unspoken challenge. He too rose to his feet.
“—Vondaimieriel—”
“—Cirandeiron—”
“—Telthorelandor—”
“—Denegathaiel—”
“—Lalmilgethior—”
“—Rolumienion—”
In moments all the High Houses present had pledged themselves to war.
* * *
From the moment she had conceived the plan, she had known it was more dangerous than any of her commanders could imagine. Caerthalien would be there. Caerthalien’s Heir-Prince would be there. Runacarendalur might be slain, and his death would mean hers as well. Caerthalien’s Heir-Prince knew of the Bond as surely as she did, and could slay her with a blade to his own throat. The Caerthalien lords were cold and proud, and their hatred for Farcarinon endured a century after its erasure. Did they hold such a weapon as the life of her Bondmate in their hands, they would not abstain from its wielding.
And yet he had. It was the greatest, strangest gift she had ever taken from the hands of a sworn foe. How long could she count upon such forbearance? What was its source?
She did not know.
Nor could she know, until the day she held Heir-Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien in bondage. If that day came.
If it does not …
Then she would have failed. And Darkness would take them all.
But today, I fight.
In another few sennights it would be a full Wheel of the Year since she had challenged Thoromarth for possession of Oronviel and taken her first step upon the road to the High Kingship. It was nearly two years since the Rain Moon when she had walked from the Sanctuary of the Star for the last time. In all those moonturns she had imagined both defeat and victory. But her imagined path to victory had been nothing like this.
She had meant to gather up a handful of Less Houses—as she had done. She had meant to call mercenary and outlaw to her banner—as she had done. She had meant to lift the heavy yoke of custom from the necks of Farmhold and Landbond and teach them the ways of war—as she had done. She had meant to shatter custom and bring Pelashia’s Children to the battlefield—and now the Warhunt rode with her. But never in hope or in madness had she thought that War Princes unconquered would rally to her banner, freely pledging to support her as High King.
Yet beneath her hand she held twenty-five of the Houses of the West in vassalage: their princes, their komen, their folk. It was as if her vow to make herself High King had been spark to tinder that had waited long for the kiss of flame. As if Amrethion’s Prophecy did not shape only her to its needs, but the folk of all the land.
She would take the Uradabhur as well.
The false parley had bought her the time to move the whole of her force east through the Dragon’s Gate. They mustered now in Ceoprentrei, the northernmost of three linked mountain valleys bordered on both sides by the peaks of the Mystrals. The mountain valley was the last place of true shelter and true safety her army would know, for when they reached the land beyond, they must fight.
Come spring, the Alliance of the High Houses would follow her over the Mystrals, baying for blood. The armies would slaughter each other without mercy or quarter, for the false parley had been a double-edged blade: it had bought her the time to move her army eastward … and it had bound the Houses of the Grand Alliance to one another with blood and vengeance.
The Trueborn Houses number twenty in the Grand Windsward, six in the Arzhana, thirty in the Uradabhur, forty-two from the Mystrals to Great Sea Ocean. Seventy-eight War Princes must yet decide I should be High King. If I gain the Uradabhur as I hope, that leaves forty-eight.
The meisne the Twelve could bring to the field was as great as all she might hope to bring to face them, for she knew she could not count on the Houses of the Windsward to ride to her aid, whether they supported her or not. The distance was too great. They would starve before they crossed the Arzhana, and even if they did not, High House Nantirworiel held the only pass which led into the Uradabhur, and it would never let an enemy army pass.
The Twelve would never declare for her without being defeated. And if she meant to defeat them, she must find something gr
eater than swords and komen.
Magery is the answer. But I am already using Magery. Perhaps if I hadn’t, the War Princes would not have formed their Alliance.
The maps beneath her hands were covered with marks drawn from the whisperings of ghosts. In the past moonturn she’d combed her borrowed memories for landmarks and events of the distant past, hoping they would form some pattern she could understand. Here Lady Indinathiel lost a third of her army. There Lord Githonel set fire to the enemy’s croplands. She’d marked the forest in which Lady Parmanaya was lost, the plain on which Lord Tengolin lost the battle because of his feud with Nelpanar, the encampment where Lord Noremallin’s army mutinied. The marks all led across the Feinolons, the Bazrahils, the Mystrals. Her ancestors had ridden west, fleeing the fall of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor. Amrethion High King had died. Pelashia Great Queen had died. And Amrethion’s lords had hunted their children, and their children’s children, and they had fled west.…
“I have had speech of Isilla,” Aradreleg said. “Will you hear, my lord?”
“In a moment,” Vieliessar said, staring at the map. She finally looked up to see Aradreleg standing before the map-table, looking both worried and impatient. “I plan our victory, and it preoccupies me,” Vieliessar said, forcing herself to sound cheerful and conciliating. “If you would rather I did not…”
Aradreleg did not answer her smile. “My lord, there is that which you must know. Isilla Farspoke me to say the scouts Lord Thoromarth sent have returned to him.”
Vieliessar glanced toward the doorway of the pavilion. It was dark outside now, and the pavilion was lit by balls of Silverlight she must have conjured up herself. On the edge of the map-table stood a platter of food, untouched. She wondered who had brought it. Rithdeliel, she suspected.
“If it is ill news, it is best given at once,” she said gently, though Aradreleg’s thoughts already gave her a sense of it. The words that followed were Thoromarth’s, and in the sharp brief sentences, Vieliessar heard despair.
Though it was already Harvest Moon, the Alliance was not retreating to winter quarters. They followed hot on the heels of Nadalforo and Thoromarth’s force. A sennight behind them at best.
I had thought to have more time! Vieliessar thought in anguish. With the Alliance following her now instead of next spring, the Houses of the Uradabhur might be terrified into adhering to their traditional loyalties. If she must conquer Less House Jaeglenhend by force of arms before she turned to face the Alliance, she would have only scant days to do so—but she must have Jaeglenhend’s loyalty before she could turn against the Alliance, for no army had ever gained victory while fighting enemies both before and behind.
And I do not wish to face them in battle at all!
“How long until Lord Thoromarth’s force reaches Ceoprentrei?” Vieliessar asked, her voice even.
“Two days, perhaps three,” Rithdeliel said. His voice was sharp with worry. “My lord, what orders?”
“Why, what orders do you imagine?” Vieliessar answered, making her voice light. “We prepare the army to march—and fight.”
* * *
As was customary at the start of a campaign, tonight Vieliessar would hold a feast for her senior commanders that would begin with a sacrifice to the Silver Hooves. She gathered from the herds of Mangiralas a dozen flawless colts and the feasting began with their sacrifice.
She was obscurely glad that Gatriadde Mangiralas was not there to see.
The company was by now too large to gather within any single pavilion, for her army numbered in the tens of thousands. She cleared the meadow her skirmishers had used for drilling and her Lightborn restored the turf. Then over all she caused to be set an enormous canopy, its fabrics joined and doubled by Magery until a veil of green and silver stood between the gathered company and the unwavering stars. From her seat at the High Table Vieliessar looked out over the assembly and knew that if she died tomorrow, she would still have accomplished enough to make her name a legend. War Princes of Houses that had fought one another since the Fall of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor sat in amity—true amity—beside sellswords, beside Landbonds raised up to be Captains of Archers, beside Lightborn who took the field wearing chain shirts beneath their Green Robes. In this moment, the High King’s pledge was redeemed in an instant out of time, for here there was neither High House nor Low, Lord nor Landbond. There were only her people.
Tomorrow they would march down through the Dragon’s Gate into the Uradabhur, and there they would fight, though she did not yet presume to say whom their enemy might be. And they would fight on until her cause was claimed by victory or by defeat, and upon the anvil of that forging they would craft either the sword with which to face the Darkness when it came …
… or the pyre of their utter destruction.
* * *
“What do I need to do to become High King?” Vieliessar asked. The banquet was over and it was yet a few candlemarks until dawn. Over the course of the feast she had turned aside the questions Thoromarth, among others, had asked; they naturally wanted to know her plans, in case those plans were something they might want to argue her out of. But Gunedwaen had asked no questions, and on impulse she had invited him to accompany her on the walk back to her pavilion.
“To win is usually considered a good first step to becoming Commander, War Prince, or High King,” Gunedwaen answered as they reached Vieliessar’s pavilion. Gunedwaen stepped forward and lifted the tent flap for Vieliessar to enter, bowing as he did so, though not without a generous measure of irony. Vieliessar stepped forward and Gunedwaen followed her inside.
There was no one else of whom Vieliessar would have asked a question such as this, especially on the eve of battle, but Vieliessar trusted Gunedwaen. Not as someone whose fealty she held—for the oath had been in some sense extorted, and oaths had been broken before—and not as a useful ally whose self-interest would keep him from rebellion, for Farcarinon’s Swordmaster was uncompromisingly loyal.
No. Though he would reject the very concept, she trusted him as her equal.
Those who held Vieliessar’s respect were few. She loved sparingly and despairingly and valued many fearlessly. She could see too clearly why the men and women who fought for her did so. For vengeance. For self-interest, and she did not despise that, for clear-eyed self-interest was precious to her. Uncounted more followed her for the simple fact that their lives with her were better than the lives they’d left, and that saddened her even while she esteemed it as the precious gift it was, for many who had joined her would die before her final victory was achieved.
But Gunedwaen followed her for love. He did not value the future she meant to summon, nor did he believe in the Prophecy she steered by. Yet he would follow her until the day Aradhwain Bride of Battles placed her cold kiss upon his lips and sent him to ride forever with the Starry Hunt.
The pavilion was empty; no doubt her servants had gone to one of the many celebrations being held tonight. But the stove had been kindled and a kettle of water stood steaming gently atop it; spell-lanterns radiated dim light. Vieliessar conjured enough Silverlight to brighten the outer room and saw a tea service arranged on a tray waiting on a table. She shook loose tea into the pot and filled it from the kettle.
Gunedwaen raised her eyebrows. “Despite all our teachings, you still have the habits of a Sanctuary Mage,” he said.
“Am I to wait for you to serve me? You have served me well enough in these past moonturns, I think.” The tea had finished steeping so she poured for both of them. Steam curled from the delicate cups. “So you say, I must win. And how will I know when I’ve won?”
Gunedwaen cocked his head, studying her. “People might stop trying to kill you,” he offered. “Or not. But the simple answer to your question is one you already know: have all the War Princes proclaim you High King.”
“A more difficult task than it sounds. I had hoped,” she said, offering up the word with unaccustomed diffidence for she well knew Gunedwaen bel
ieved that if one must hope, one had lost, “to gain the Uradabhur before facing the Alliance.”
“Whereupon they would concede and anoint you High King,” Gunedwaen said. “But that is not your road to victory. It never has been.”
Vieliessar gazed at him in puzzlement and after a pause Gunedwaen continued. “I have been a Swordmaster since before your father’s birth. Wondertales are my stock-in-trade. Truth matters little. It is what people believe that ends battles or begins them.
“At least half the people out there follow you because you’re the Child of the Prophecy, Amrethion Aradruiniel’s chosen successor.” He waved his hand in the direction of the rest of the camp. “They expect your life and your war to be a wondertale. They want you to be as amazing and unknowable as Great Queen Pelashia Celenthodiel. If you give them what they want of you, they will love you and they will follow you. As will your foes—if you can convince them.”
“I am not a—” Vieliessar began hotly.
“Spirit? Great Power? Ancient hero reborn?” Gunedwaen asked. “Do you really think it matters? They want a good story. Give them that, and even the Twelve will bow their necks.”
Vieliessar bit back the angry words she longed to say. From the moment she’d begun to realize the sheer scope of the power surrounding her—and influencing her—she’d been uneasy with it. Even if she wasn’t manipulating people’s minds deliberately, she knew it was happening. The fact that Gunedwaen dismissed it so lightly made it worse. When did what she did to save her people become more terrible than what she was trying to save them from?
She shook her head stubbornly. There were no clear-cut choices.
“You mean to destroy the life we’ve all led for thousands of years, cast down the War Princes, change everything anyone has ever known, bring ‘justice’ to the commons, and turn every soul of the Fortunate Lands into a great army to fight an enemy so terrible Amrethion Aradruiniel refused to name it. You cannot do that as a mere War Prince, or even as High King. You must become more than that.”
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