In the distance there was a sudden great upswelling of sound, as warriors shouted, drums boomed, and warhorns cried. The ground—even this far away from the charging destriers—trembled.
The battle had begun.
It was on his third return to the carts that Tunonil saw Light’s Chosen going among the wagons, with servants behind them. At each wagon they paused, and laid a hand upon the brow of the beasts yoked there. If the Light’s Chosen nodded, the servants would unhitch the animal. If they shook their heads, it was left in its traces. At first it seemed their work was random, but as he watched he saw that each one they uncoupled or unyoked moved eagerly toward the Great Keep.
It seemed madness and rebellion, but after a few moments Tunonil understood what was happening. The Light’s Chosen meant to drive the carts to the battlefield, to bear away the wounded for Healing as they had always done. For that reason, they separated the High King’s beasts from their own to be sure of driving teams that answered to no one but their masters.
By now the lesser servants reeled with drunkenness and beer, singing and shouting gaily to one another, for the kegs of strong ale had been many, intended for twice the number who drank of them, and to be thinned with water besides. Some worked, some idled, some crept off to sleep. It was then that Tunonil saw the shape of what the High King’s people must do to win their freedom. No one would trust the High King’s people to do the work of preparing pavilion, kitchen, or larder, so once the pavilions had been set, their labor was finished. They could not make their escape unnoticed or unseen. But they could go at a time when no one who saw them would dare to follow. All the lords had ridden forth, and there was no one remaining with the authority to rule over the servants of every House.
In murmured half-sentences, Tunonil passed the plan to as many as he dared, for it was important for them all to remain together. He was soon glad he had done so, for the enemy was not one army, but many. The servants of this House treated them as enemies, while the servants of that House said that if they would pledge themselves to obedience once more, they would be fed and clothed and nothing would be said of their flight. And the servants of yet another House asked no promise of submission, but said food would be found for the children if they would bring them once the kitchens were ready. To all who spoke, the prisoners returned words that were soft and meaningless, and when the servants of the enemy became occupied with their tasks, the High King’s people slipped away.
For the first time, Tunonil could see the battlefield clearly, and when the wind shifted, he could smell the blood.
The fighting had spread out across the field in front of the Great Keep, and eastward as well. There was a great earthwork surrounding the castel—new, for Tunonil could see the raw earth of it—and it divided each army into two forces, fighting on either side of it. Riderless destriers galloped through the battle, and here and there he saw flashes of bright purple light. The castel’s battlements were lined with Light’s Chosen, and now and again the front wall of the castel flickered with the same light. Tunonil could not tell who was winning.
The refugees did not walk directly toward the Great Keep, for that would be to walk into the battle. But a little distance from the western wall of the Great Keep was a stand of trees, and some of the oxen that had been freed from the wagons could be seen moving toward them with steady deliberation. Tunonil knew both armies would avoid that place—the enemy, because he feared it held the High King’s archers; the High King’s warriors because it did not. It was there that the High King’s people would wait.
If they reached it alive.
“At least no one is calling down storm or lightning,” a woman walking beside him said. “It is why the War Princes are not holding back their reserves—see?”
She had to put her mouth close beside his ear to be heard, for the sound of the battle was like the bellowing of an ox and the clanging of a smith’s hammer and the roar of a stormwind all commingled and magnified a thousandfold.
“Such knowing is not for mere Landbonds,” Tunonil said ungraciously. The woman was not someone he knew, but more than a few of the enemy’s servants had seized upon this chance for freedom.
“Fool!” the woman said. “Do you think I was born in silk and silver? I was born a Landbond, just as—”
She broke off as a knight galloped toward them. There was barely a mile between them and the edges of the battle, and as soon as they’d seen the enemy knight he was almost upon them. Many screamed and ran—as if that might save them—but just as the knight drew his sword, the purple light appeared before him. Horse and rider struck it as if they struck a wall, and fell to the ground, both dead. A cheer went up from the people at the sight, and Tunonil’s heart filled with joy.
“You see the High King has not forgotten us, even in the heat of battle,” he said to the woman beside him. “Can you say such of your great lord?”
“Are you disordered in your wits?” she demanded. “I spit on Aramenthiali! Do you suppose I could return to the encampment and take up my life again? How long before Heart-Seeing was set upon the servants of Lord Manderechiel’s tent and it was discovered I lied when I said I had his order from Lord Malanant to prepare the tents?” She spoke loudly enough now that those nearest could hear.
Wide-eyed, Tuonil said, “That was you?” Truly, this was a deed worth remembering, and telling over so that the tale could be passed on forever.
“Think you I acted alone?” the woman of Aramenthiali demanded. She made a sweeping gesture that took in the plodding thousands ahead of them. “I would swear to you that a hundred—a thousand—more—of those here served the High Houses this morning! How think you so many kegs of ale came to be set out? Or you found yourselves excused from your labors so conveniently? Even the Lightborn … I do not say they have joined your cause, but tell me, you who know all—from what noble families do the Lightborn come?”
“From none,” another woman answered. “All know the Light favors the commons. It is our recompense for lives of labor and hardship.”
“And so some of them were willing to say they believed my words, and if the camp were to be set, why should they not prepare to bring the wounded for Healing? Easy enough to bring back fleeing beasts once the battle was won,” the woman said.
Another group of knights galloped from the battle, intent on attacking the refugees. The two in the lead galloped into walls of purple light and died, just as the first had, but the ones behind them had enough warning to rein in. Tunonil hoped they would simply return to the battle once they saw their prey was not undefended, but instead they moved forward at a walk. The marchers began to scatter. Tunonil froze where he stood.
Then one attacker began to beat at his arms and chest—Tunonil could see the bright silk of his garments had gone grey with frost—and the silks of another burst into flames, so that his warhorse galloped madly forward to batter itself against another wall of purple.
The remaining knights turned and galloped back toward the battle.
At last—welcome sight!—Tunonil saw the Light’s Chosen of the High King riding down the line on horseback, to see if all was well.
“Are you the last? Are more coming? Oh praise to the Light, Tunonil—I did not think you would survive!” Aradreleg Lightsister said as she reached them.
“Takes more than hard work and light feeding to kill a Landbond,” Tunonil answered gruffly.
“Are you the last?” Aradreleg repeated, and Tunonil nodded.
“No more. Some may have stayed, but—Mistress High House here says some of their folk are with us.”
The woman from Aramenthiali tried to glare at him, but the relief of freedom was too sweet. “My name is Tance,” she said. “Not ‘Mistress High House.’”
“I’ll bring you to the gathering place so you can rest. There’s not much there, but there’s water … and pikes. Lord Rithdeliel said if you managed to escape, you should be ready to fight.”
“Is there a bow?” Tance asked. �
��I was a forester in Lord Malanant’s household.”
“A forester?” Aradreleg said. “Praise the Light indeed! Your skills are welcome! Come—Tunonil, help her mount; I am needed elsewhere, and she is as well—”
Tance looked stunned at the swift change in her fortunes, but did as Aradreleg said. A moment later, they galloped away.
* * *
It was dusk by the time Tunonil heard the hornsong that signaled the High King’s victory and the enemy’s retreat. It was much like the end of every battle Tunonil had ever seen. Wounded knights moaned or shouted, wounded horses screamed, dogs howled and barked as they ran among the fallen. Uncounted hundreds of gleaners walked the battlefield, separating living from dead, friend from foe, and shooing away the ravens that had come in the thousands to gorge. Before morning, all that would lie upon the field would be the naked bodies of the enemy dead: their own dead would be brought back and prepared for the fire. Tunonil had learned that the High King was not here—but safe, safe, everyone agreed—so he wondered what would become of the enemy knights abandoned here if they could not pledge fealty to her.
He hoped they, too, would lie naked and abandoned on the field in the dawn light.
The end of the battle was only the beginning of the work for those who had not fought, though few grudged the labor now that they were the High King’s folk once again. There were horses to saddle, mules to catch and rope together, and oxen to collect and match into their familiar teams, for now the wagons they’d left behind must be brought to their encampment.
Tunonil had asked what was to keep the enemy from destroying their undefended wagons, and Harwing Lightbrother had laughed.
“Why, we are, of course! They won’t burn them or loot them or even carry them away while Shield is set upon them! We have been watching the wagons all day, as carefully as we watched the battle, and no one has gone near.”
Tunonil led his oxen back to the wagons. Even though the last light of day still brightened the sky, globes of wonder-glow had been set shining here. When he reached the carts, Tunonil saw knights, blood-spattered and weary, sitting their destriers in a line between the workers and the camp of the enemy—and beside them, rank upon rank of Light’s Chosen. He unblocked the wagon’s wheels, set the yoke upon the oxen’s necks, then coaxed them into place along the tree and chained the yoke to the shaft.
Once up on the wagon’s high seat, Tunonil looked back. Half the pavilions he and his fellows had labored to set were down again, and some were being put back up. He didn’t see the enemy army, but he didn’t stay to look.
The High King had won. That was all that mattered.
* * *
To be a War Prince possessed of a Name and a growing legend had its advantages, Vieliessar discovered. Border Lord Karamedheliel, master of Jaeglenhend’s Oakstone Tower, did not need to be convinced that her word was good and her dealings fair; nor did Vieliessar, for her part, fear secret rebellion. She did not plan to remain here for long, but neither did she mean to ride forth blindly and unprepared. And so, on the second night after she had taken Oakstone Tower, she retired to her bedchamber—once Karamedheliel’s—before the evening meal. It was not the soft bed Vieliessar yearned for as much as for a door that could be spell-locked. She had never dared to do this while on the march. There were too many calls upon her time, too many urgencies. And while a tent flap could have the same spell set upon it, anyone determined to enter need merely cut the fabric of the pavilion. And she dared not be interrupted while she was Farspeaking.
With all that had happened, it was hard to bring herself to the state of calm her spell required. Even the relief she felt at spell-locking the door of the sleeping chamber did not bring relief, so she wove ward after ward about the room until the walls sang with Magery, taking comfort in the familiar discipline. Silence and Protection and Silence again, until the space began to take on the heavy quiet of one of the meditation chambers in the Sanctuary. She had never realized what a luxury it was to live behind Wards and walls until she left them behind forever.
Her spellkit—once Celeharth’s—had been lost with her baggage train. But she had found a way to make do. From a chest in the corner she took a stone teapot and a delicate cup of moon-pale shin’zuruf. She had been surprised but pleased to find these items among Karamedheliel’s possessions. Most welcome of all was a tiny brazier, only large enough to hold one charcoal disk. The brazier was very old, carved of white jade with the design of a herd of running unicorns, a golden bowl for the charcoal set in the top. Gazing at it, Vieliessar thought back suddenly to the day she had gone to Earime’kalareinya to sacrifice for victory in battle. Even now, the memory of the Unicorn’s radiant beauty, glimpsed and lost, made her heart ache when she thought of it.
Recognizing her mind’s attempts to delay her, she opened another box and chose a disk of charcoal, setting it carefully into the brazier’s golden bowl. She placed the brazier on top of the chest, then set the charcoal alight with a thought. Iardalaith had given her a wooden canister of tea, and another of incense. Now she shook loose tea into the teapot, then filled it with hot water from the kettle. As she waited for the tea to steep, she opened the incense box and teased out the tiny bone spoon inside, then scooped a small mound of incense crystals onto the charcoal. At once they began to bubble and melt, and soon the sweet, rich scent of incense filled the chamber. When the tea was ready, she poured her cup full. The cool sweetness of the tea mingled with the warm sweetness of the incense, familiar and soothing.
By the time she’d finished two cups of tea, the calm sense of weight she’d always somehow associated with complex and delicate Magery had settled over her. She folded the bed’s coverlet to serve as a cushion and settled herself upon the thickly carpeted floor.
Thurion? Thurion, are you there?
Since the day she had sent him to the Grand Windsward, Vieliessar had tried to Farspeak him as often as she could. But the Windsward was so far to the east that it might be afternoon there even when night had fallen in the West. And Farspeech only worked when both Lightborn had minds that were still and quiet, awaiting the message. They had missed each other as often as not. The last time she had been able to contact him, she had been in Ceoprentrei.
She could no longer easily recall how many sennights had passed since then.
For long moments she called and received no reply. She was about to give up when:
“Vielle? It has been so long! Are you well?”
She opened her inward eyes and saw what she expected to: the image of a chamber in some Grand Windsward castel.
“We reached the Uradabhur safely enough. Things have not gone well since.”
She quickly told him the whole: the battle with Jaeglenhend, the Alliance’s pursuit, her defeat in battle, her flight. “I can only hope my people survive, but I fear for those who lie in the Alliance’s hands. I hold the fealty of twenty-five Houses, Thurion. Take my army and my life, and the High Houses become rich. They intend to execute all who have sworn fealty to me and divide their domains among themselves.”
“And they have every reason to choose that course,” Thurion said slowly. “Why should they fear the vengeance of the Silver Hooves when it did not fall upon them for the destruction of Farcarinon? But this could help us. Once word spreads that the High Houses now follow a strategy of conquest and annexation…” There was a long pause as Thurion sought for words. “Many will see that choosing your side will allow them to retain their lives, if not their sovereignty. Gain enough Houses, and even this Alliance cannot stand against you.”
This disconcertingly insightful analysis of a situation Thurion hadn’t even known about a tenth-candlemark before only made Vieliessar miss him more keenly.
“If I yet have more army than the handful that accompanied me in my flight. I shall try to reach Aradreleg next, to see what news she can give me. If she lives,” Vieliessar added softly, for Aradreleg had been among those captured, and though no War Prince would execute her, any Lig
htborn might choose to. “But tell me your news,” she urged. “I need your council. And my own situation I know.”
She felt him laugh just a little. “My news is much as it was the last time we spoke, save for this: the Silver Swords leave within the sennight. Master Kemmiaret swears he will bring the Silver Swords across the Arzhana before the passes to the Uradabhur close.”
“And what does Melchienchiel Penenjil say?” Vieliessar asked.
“She says she will come—this season if she can. But you know she will be more cautious with the rest of her meisne. The southern route isn’t wide or gradual enough for supply wagons, and the northern route is held by Nantirworiel. Methothiel Nantirworiel usually doesn’t care who uses the pass so long as they pay, but—”
“—but it’s different when he’s being asked to let an enemy army through,” she finished for him. “If the Silver Swords would like to conquer Nantirworiel on their way west, that would be very useful to me.”
“I’ll mention that to Master Kemmiaret,” Thurion answered dryly. “The Houses that have declared for you are all mustering their meisnes. Kerethant and Enerchelimier join Penenjil on the march. I think Artholor and Hallorad also plan to come at once, but they lie east of Penenjil and neither will risk a Windsward crossing or an ascent of the Feinolon Range in bad weather. And if the weather turns early, all of them will stay in the Windsward until spring rather than be forced to winter in the Arzhana.”
“And rather than ask their Lightborn to divert the storm—or open the passes,” Vieliessar said.
“Yes,” Thurion said regretfully. “It is much to ask of them.”
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