We’re running out of time, Runacarendalur thought uneasily, but he knew that wasn’t true. They’d already run out of time. It was Rade, and there was already snow in the mountain passes. Even if he found Vieliessar tomorrow and all her army surrendered at once, they were trapped here until spring thaw. Long enough for the Alliance War Princes to turn on each other, for the Less Houses of the Uradabhur to turn on the Alliance, for anything to happen …
Each night when they stopped, Ivrulion Farspoke Feliot Lightbrother to report their continued failure and hear news of Caerthalien. Runacarendalur disliked the sensation of being watched over and second-guessed, but it was a relief to hear that Caerthalien had not been set upon by its allies.
Allies! A pack of wild dogs coursing a fat stag, as willing to bring down the lions among them as to take their lawful prey …
As if sensing his brother’s growing frustration, this morning Ivrulion had suggested a hunting expedition, and a day of hunting and a supper of roast venison did much to improve Runacarendalur’s temper. Afterward he wandered idly through the encampment, stopping here and there to exchange a word or two with his komen, then walked out past the bounds. His breath fogged on the air, and the stars above were bright. The Starry Road was a band of Silverlight across the heavens: as a child, whenever Caerthalien rode to war, he would slip away from his nurse—and later, his servants—to stand beneath the night sky, imagining he could hear the cries of the Hunt as they carried away those his father and brothers had killed that day.…
“A word, brother.”
Runacarendalur hadn’t heard Ivrulion approach, but a part of him always expected to suddenly find his brother near, for when Ivrulion had returned from the Sanctuary with Lightborn powers of stealth and concealment, he hadn’t scrupled to use them to terrify his newest sibling.
“I stand ready to hear,” Runacarendalur said, turning and sweeping Ivrulion a mocking bow.
“I think you should come back within the bounds. Anything might be out here,” Ivrulion said.
“I wish it were,” Runacarendalur muttered.
“Does it occur to you that we can find no sign of them because they are not here to find?” Ivrulion asked. “In three days, much could happen. They are a sennight ahead of us. If they quarreled— If by some mischance Vieliessar Farcarinon was slain—”
“She is not dead!” Runacarendalur said. “I—” I would know. I, too, would die.…
He bit back the words unsaid, but it was too late. Ivrulion was studying him with new interest.
“Caerthalien stood in the front ranks at the false parley,” Ivrulion said.
“I was there,” Runacarendalur snapped. “To see Farcarinon once again profane the Code of Battle with trickery and lies.”
“Indeed,” his brother said. “I watched you that day. It seemed to me you meant to cry warning to our father that all was not as it seemed.”
“How should I have known that?” Runacarendalur said uneasily.
Ivrulion did not answer. “Walk with me, brother,” he said instead, taking Runacarendalur’s arm and leading him away from the encampment
They walked in silence for a time, until the lights of their camp were dimmed by distance. At last Ivrulion stopped.
“You were much changed upon your return from Oronviel,” he said.
“We lost,” Runacarendalur said shortly.
He was ill at ease with the direction of Ivrulion’s seemingly idle words. He would not have stood for such an interrogation from anyone else, even Lord Bolecthindial, but Ivrulion, of all his kin, was no threat to him. Lightborn might betray—Caerthalien had always safeguarded itself by ensuring that they would watch one another, vying for status and privileges—but what greater honors could Ivrulion wish than those he already held? Ivrulion could never inherit Caerthalien. So Mosirinde Peacemaker and Arilcarion War-Maker intended, when they drew up the Code of Battle and the Lightborn Covenant. If no Lightborn can inherit a domain, or deed any of their gifts and honors to their children, it only makes sense for them to be loyal to those who can. Before Oronviel, he’d been confident Ivrulion would outlive him and stand ready to guard the next War Prince of Caerthalien as he’d guarded the last.
And so he would, but that War Prince would not be Runacarendalur’s child.
“A tragic day,” Ivrulion said smoothly. “And yet … I feel there is more to your distemper than a loss upon the battlefield. Oronviel’s victory that day touches Bolecthindial’s honor—yet it is you who would cast off all reason and sense to compass Vieliessar Farcarinon’s death.”
“I act for the good of Caerthalien!” Runacarendalur said, but even in his own ears, his words rang hollow. I will not be Bonded to a monster!
“And yet … Is it good to withhold from Caerthalien that which may profit it to know?” Ivrulion asked silkily. “I think you have a secret you wish to confide in me, brother.”
There is nothing to tell. He opened his mouth, the words ready on his tongue.
But those were not the words he spoke. Instead, “Vieliessar Farcarinon is my destined Bondmate,” he said, and saw Ivrulion smile.
“So I suspected.”
“You— How dare you bespell me, as if I were—” Runacarendalur willed himself attack, to draw his sword, to strike down his treacherous brother. Instead, he staggered backward a few clumsy steps.
“Some treacherous vassal, some outlaw, some Landbond rabble?” Ivrulion said lightly. His smile was a cold and predatory thing. “But dear brother, what may we say of one who has held Vieliessar Farcarinon’s life in his hands this half-year and forborn to take it?”
“No one would believe it was other than a plot by Caerthalien to…” Runacarendalur’s ragged words faltered to a stop, but at least this time they were his own. He imagined he could feel the Magery Ivrulion had netted him in like a cold slime upon his skin, taking from him all dignity, all choice …
“As my choice was taken!” Ivrulion said, and for once the cold, controlled voice held bright anger. “I was Heir-Prince to Caerthalien! I! You were not even thought of! It was to have been mine! Instead, I am a servant, to scrape and bow, to take orders like the lowest hedge knight, to see my children dispraised, having nothing unless the charity of the next War Prince decrees it! Do you know what my Midwinter Gift was in the year I was Chosen? A sword. I had ridden to war as our father’s arming page. In the summer to come, he would have made me komen. But I did not ride to war that summer. No. When War Season came that year, I was at the Sanctuary of the Star, scrubbing pots and sweeping floors. I comforted myself with the knowledge that Domcariel was slow and foolish, and I would still rule Caerthalien with him as my puppet. And when at last I was released, I discovered they had bred another heir. You.”
“But you were Called.…” Runacarendalur faltered, still stunned by Ivrulion’s fury. How could ’Rulion have held the dream of Caerthalien so close that none of them had suspected he was rotted through with cheated ambition?
“Called!” Ivrulion spat. “I was never meant to go before Astorion Lightbrother in Open Court that night! It should have been Carangil or Feliot, who knew what they should see and what they should not. Helegondolrindir Astromancer was as rotted through with dreams and ambitions as both her successors. It was her scheming that set me before Astorion. But I have been patient. And my patience is to be rewarded at last.…”
He is mad, Runacarendalur thought in horror, trying desperately to guard his thoughts from Ivrulion’s hearing. He would die, and this madthing, this witchborn traitor brother, would be Regent.…
“Oh, Rune, sweet brother,” Ivrulion said, shaking his head sadly. “Do you think me so simple? Come. Let us see what we may make of this Bond of yours.…”
Runacarendalur stood helplessly as Ivrulion advanced upon him. He felt cool hands pressed against his temples.
And then there was only light, and pain.
* * *
For a moment Runacarendalur could not think where he was. He thought hazily of b
attle, of being struck from Gwaenor’s back and carried to the Healing Tents. But his fingers flexed in night-chill grass as, with a groan, he opened his eyes. The sky above him was pale with dawn, and even that small light was enough to send lancing pain through his head. He winced, turning his head to the side.
“What a pity,” Ivrulion said.
“That I’m alive?” Runacarendalur asked after a moment, his voice, a hoarse whisper.
“That it didn’t work,” Ivrulion said reprovingly. “I’d hoped to locate the supposed High King through your Bond. But alas, my poor skills proved inadequate to that task.”
“I’ll see you dead.” With a supreme effort, Runacarendalur rolled onto his stomach. Nausea surged through him but he fought it back as he struggled to rise.
“By the Light, I never before thought you stupid.” Ivrulion stepped forward and hauled him to his feet. Runacarendalur balanced on unsteady legs, swaying and gasping. “Do you think I’m going to let you fling yourself at our dear father’s feet and confess?”
Runacarendalur shook his head, trying to clear it. Would Bolecthindial believe him? It didn’t matter. He had to try.
“You see, dear brother—or you should, since your tactical skills have made you the darling of the Storysingers—one does not throw away a useful weapon. Go to Bolecthindial to confess, and you will find you cannot. Take up your courage to end your life and your Bondmate’s, and you will find you cannot.” Ivrulion took him by the arm and began to walk him back toward the camp. Runacarendalur staggered and stumbled beside him, helpless to resist.
His strength returned swiftly, though his head ached abominably. After a few paces, Runacarendalur yanked his arm free and took a step backward. His hand closed over the hilt of his sword, and as it did, he vowed to the Silver Hooves that one of them would die here this day. Perhaps both.
He pulled at the sword with all his strength. It did not move.
“Attempt to kill me, and you will find you cannot do that either,” Ivrulion said gently. He smiled, and for an instant Runacarendalur saw his brother, his ally, his friend …
Then Ivrulion’s dark eyes grew hard and cold. His smile did not change.
“Now come. Your komen will wonder what has kept you from your bed all night. And I am eager for my breakfast.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE HERO TALE
Every war begins with its own hero tale, as if it were a great lord who had lived a long life and now has a story-song crafted to be sung over its funeral pyre. And any prince who clings to that story-song after a campaign begins will drink to drowning of the cup of defeat and loss, for a war is not a warrior, and no mortal prince can force the world to follow their whim as if they wear the cloak of the Starry Huntsman.
—Arilcarion War-Maker,
Of the Sword Road
“It took you long enough to get here,” Rithdeliel said.
“I thought we should see something of the countryside, since we’d come all this way,” Gunedwaen answered, and Rithdeliel laughed.
It was a full sennight since the disastrous battle in the storm. The great manor houses they had passed on their way to the keep had been utterly deserted, as destitute as if they had been sacked, and so Gunedwaen had dared to hope other parts of the High King’s army had escaped the enemy’s trap. But he had not truly believed until he saw Lord Rithdeliel riding toward him on his great grey destrier, two tailles of komen behind him.
“Come and see the castel instead, old friend! If we are crowded there—and we are—we are at least well fed!” He gestured to the knight-herald beside him. The knight-herald raised his horn and sounded a call, and Gunedwaen gestured to his own knight-herald.
That damned rascal’s lucky we still have a herald and a warhorn with us—but that’s a Caerthalien-bred Warlord for you: always sure the world will run as he wishes, and not as it wills … Gunedwaen thought sourly. Every Swordmaster was a cynic and pessimist; good fortune only made them suspicious.
As his knight-herald’s call echoed Rithdeliel’s, the komen behind Gunedwaen began to cheer. The sound grew louder as it was taken up by more and more of them, the impulse of it rolling backward through the ordered ranks in their formations, dipping as komen paused for breath, swelling anew as they shouted in loud fierce joy.
But Rithdeliel’s boast of triumph was—much as Gunedwaen had suspected—a show for the komentai’a. Once he was behind closed doors with Rithdeliel and the majority of the surviving War Princes—sour luck indeed to find so many of them here; if it had been left to Gunedwaen he would have dropped them all into Great Sea Ocean and called it a good day’s work—he heard a different tale.
Vieliessar High King was still missing.
“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” Gunedwaen demanded. “It’s been more than a sennight since the Alliance proved it could fight—they could have executed her by now!”
“They would have gotten around to mentioning it,” Lord Thoromarth said. “If you think Nilkaran Jaeglenhend doesn’t know where we are, you’re mistaken—Lord Rithdeliel threw his court out of the keep when we took it.”
From his seat by the window, Rithdeliel bowed ironically, not getting to his feet. “We kept the Heir-Prince,” he said. “And his extremely annoying sister. I believe they’re in the dungeons.”
“So Nilkaran knows you have his keep and his heir,” Gunedwaen said. “And you think—what? He’d ask the Alliance to trade Lord Vieliessar for them?”
“I think the Alliance would know where to send its knights-herald to show us her severed head and invite us to surrender,” Thoromarth answered caustically. “But they’re chasing their tails. Aradreleg Lightsister and the rest of our Green Robes escaped the Alliance and reached us yesterday morning. Aradreleg said the Alliance Lightborn lifted the storm so they could try to track Lord Vieliessar—so of course their wagons are now mired in mud. She’s got a plan to get our equipment back, too—if you don’t mind a little fighting.”
“You’ve got half the Lightborn of the West here,” Gunedwaen said. “Why don’t you just…?” He waved his hand wordlessly.
“Apparently Magery isn’t that useful unless you want to either strike somebody with a bolt of lightning or freeze them to death in a blizzard,” Kalides Brabamant said, sounding irritable. “I’ve seen Alasneh Lightsister Call my lady’s gloves across the castel dozens of times. But several thousand Lightborn cannot do the same for a few carts.”
Gunedwaen knew better than most Lightless what the limitations of the Light truly were. Even if the Lightborn could Call the contents of every baggage wagon to them—a thing by no means certain—all the living things would be left behind. “I’ve never objected to a fight,” he said mildly. “What is this plan?”
* * *
For nearly a two sennights since their capture, the surviving commons of the High King’s baggage train had followed the enemy army. They had no choice. Any who ran was cut down by komen on horseback or dragged back to the encampment to suffer a more lingering death. The escape of the Lightborn had been the only triumph they could claim, and it was little enough to warm shivering, ill-clad bodies or fill stomachs pinched with hunger.
But now the enemy had brought them to Jaeglenhend Great Keep.
Too far! Tunonil thought. We are still too far distant! It was almost a league from where the wagons stood to the castel walls—and the protection of the High King’s army. If the commonfolk tried to reach it afoot, they would surely be cut down as they ran. Nor could they bring with them the precious sumpter wagons. Those stood unmoving, their wheels spoked, for the Light’s Chosen of the High King had been Calling since dawn, and already their flocks of sheep and goats, horses and cattle, had headed the Call. Only the oxen and mules remained behind, shackled to their unmoving wagons, but even that was a victory for the High King, for it was not merely her wagons which must be held immobile, but all of them.
When Tunonil and all the rest had first been captured, the oxherds and muleteers h
ad seized the best of their draft animals for their own wagons and carts, and now those beasts who could be Called were scattered throughout the combined baggage train. So the wagons stood motionless, and the komen armed themselves, and the War Princes shouted and argued over what was to be done and how.
The clamor of the war drums could be heard in the distance, and the warhorns sounded. The knights were calling for their destriers to be saddled and their weapons to be brought. Soon the two armies would clash.
At last the army rode forth. Even though these were the warriors of the enemy, sworn foes of the High King, they were a splendid sight to see, for every horse and rider wore bright silk and the armor of the komen was as bright as butterfly wings. Behind the warhorses and the wearers of bright armor and silks came a second army of servants. Their palfreys were laden with baskets of food and drink, for the great lords went to war as to a festival, and among the servants rode the Light’s Chosen who served the enemy.
“You! Get down from there! This wagon isn’t going anywhere, so get to work, you lazy brute!”
The speaker was no great lord, but he carried a whip, and no Landbond’s life was held dear by any but themselves. Tunonil climbed down from the wagon bench. The carts were being unloaded and their contents laid upon the ground, and he could see that other prisoners were already carrying baskets, boxes, rugs, and chairs to the place where the servants meant to set their masters’ encampment. Even the paddocks and the horselines were being prepared for their masters’ return, though there was not now a single horse in the whole of the camp, for most had fled candlemarks ago and the rest had been ridden to war.
The work was hard, though Tunonil was used to hard work and there were many hands to help. But they had all been days with scant food and little water. Burdens he had carried lightly and eagerly in the High King’s service were now nearly too heavy to lift. And those servants of the enemy ordered to labor beside them rejoiced in making their tasks harder, pushing and tripping them just to see them fall. Tunonil was only glad matters were no worse, and he was surprised to find—when he returned to the carts for another load—that great barrels of beer and cider and water had been taken down and opened, and they were not stopped from drinking their fill. Cider was sweet indeed to the starved and the thirsty, and if the servants of the enemy jealously claimed all the beer for their own, what did that matter?
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