Crown of Vengeance

reaches held Flower Forests greater than that.

Thurion had looked to Varuthir to see if she thought this as great a wonder as he, yet she seemed not to have heard Prince Runacarendalur’s words. She stared off into the distance and her face was still with grief.

He knew she walked the bounds of the camp each night until the spell-lamps were covered and all composed themselves for sleep. In the first days he had been too tired to do anything but seek his bed after the meal, but when that exhaustion had passed, he’d often spent those candlemarks in games or in hearing story-songs of great deeds, for even though Helecanth was very grand, she said she was happy to have the telling of them to fresh ears. But Varuthir had never joined them. It did not seem good to him that something so joyous as this journey should make one so beautiful so sad, and so, this night, he left Athrothir and Berthon to their amusements and sought her out.

Thurion had become accustomed to the sounds of the camp at night—the faint grunts of tethered horses, the grinding sound of grain being chewed, the long sighs of the oxen, the jingle of bridle and clink of stirrup as the sentries rode the bounds. Tonight there was a new scent upon the wind, for one might smell the blooms of a Flower Forest even from so far away. He soon found Varuthir, a dim figure in the darkness, only the silver embroidery on her cloak gleaming in the light from the pavilions.

“You should be happy,” Thurion blurted out when he reached her. It was not what he’d meant to say. He had intended to say he cared for her, and worried about her, and had seen her sadness. He might even have asked if she missed her friends from the castel, for he felt certain she’d had many.

“I?” she asked, turning. The distant glow of the lanterns fell full upon her face, framed in the white fur of her cloak’s hood, and she twined one long ebony braid between her fingers. “I was not born to be happy,” she said in a low voice.

“I don’t know why,” Thurion answered, his tongue stumbling over the words. “To be Called to the Sanctuary of the Star—I always hoped to be summoned there, even if it is only for a year, as it might be, you know, and … Berthon will be made a knight, if he is not found to be Lightborn, but such as I—to become one with the Light is a great honor—” At last he managed to stop talking, cursing his clumsy tongue, for he had meant to offer comfort, and instead he saw Varuthir’s eyes glitter now with tears.

“It is an honor I never sought, nor is it one I shall gain,” she said flatly.

“Have you Seen this?” he blurted. “The dreams that come—if you have Light—they do not matter unless— until—”

But she held up her hand to stop him. “The dreams I held were not of this. I thank you, Thurion, for your kindness,” she added after a pause. “You do not know me, and so it does you honor.”

It was plainly a dismissal, but he could not bring himself to leave. “Do you—do you think—when we are at the Sanctuary—” he began, but she shook her head and he fell silent.

“You do not know me,” she repeated. “But you will. And then you will … Then you will have your answers.” Still she did not send him away, so Thurion stood with her in silence until Komen Helecanth summoned them both to their beds. He wondered at the words she had spoken, and it was not long before he could place knowing upon them.

CHAPTER TWO

CHILD OF THE PROPHECY

Listen, child, and I will tell you a tale that is both true and real. Long ago, in the morning of the world, when there was nothing but Jer-a-kalaliel itself, nine stars looked down from the sky and saw the beautiful land we live in. And they were so enchanted by its beauty that they fell from the heavens. And

each place

one fell to the ground was

more

beautiful

than the next, and because each

was so beautiful, great Flower Forests grew up where each of the nine stars fell down. And the Flower Forests contained every tree and plant that grows, and some that remain only in Tilinaparanwira the Lost, which grows behind the East Wind.

—Ancient Nursery Tale

The Sanctuary of the Star was not just one building, though only one building was the Sanctuary itself. That building was like a great keep in miniature—three stories of grey Mage-forged stone with a doorway that led directly to the Outer Sanctuary. Within that building, all were bound by the Peace of the Sanctuary, which obliged even those who had declared blood feud to pass one another by without raising a hand in violence.

The Caerthalien party was met on the road by Othring Lightbrother, saying Caerthalien’s was the first caravan to come this season. He greeted all four Candidates individually, but Thurion thought his gaze lingered longest upon Varuthir. Thurion thought they might stop to wash off the dirt of the road before entering the Sanctuary, but as soon as they’d dismounted, Prince Runacarendalur unbuckled his swordbelt and handed his weapon to Komen Helecanth.

“Come,” he said. “The sooner I have delivered you to the care of the Mistress of Servants, the sooner you may settle into your new lives.”

At his words, Varuthir started, then stared at Prince Runacarendalur with hot eyes before turning away.

The four Candidates followed Prince Runacarendalur and Othring Lightbrother through the main doors of the Sanctuary. Thurion had heard many storysongs of this place, yet somehow it was unlike every one of them. It was not as grand as the telling in The Rade of Bringaer, for the stone was not as white as new milk, nor was it vaster than all the Great Keeps in Jer-a-kalaliel together. But to see the great bronze doors, with this piece and that bright-shining from the touch of uncounted hands, and to know that beyond it one might see stone struck by the Silver Hooves of the Starry Hunt’s own destriers … that made Thurion’s heart beat fast and the breath catch in his throat. It was a long moment before he had eyes for the woman who awaited them.

She did not wear the green robe, but she wore the Sanctuary’s badge upon her tabard. She was not young, for her braids were streaked with grey, and yet there was such dignity and power about her that for a moment Thurion was certain he gazed upon the Astromancer herself.

“I am Mistress Maeredhiel,” she said crisply. “Candidates, I greet you in the name of the Sanctuary of the Star. Until the day you are Called to the Light—if you are—you are my responsibility. In your Service Year you will take your orders from me. Now, who is it the Sanctuary of the Star has the honor to welcome this day?”

It was a wonder in a day of wonders that Mistress Maeredhiel had, until her last sentence, ignored Prince Runacarendalur as if he were any servant boy. Now he spoke, his speech as deferential as if he spoke to Lord Bolecthindial himself. “Caerthalien entrusts to the Sanctuary of the Star Candidates Berthon, Athrothir, Thurion, and—”

“I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, War Prince of Farcarinon!” Varuthir said, stepping forward. “I come as a prisoner, not a Candidate! Though Caerthalien slew my parents, Farcarinon yet lives!”

* * *

There was a moment of electric silence, and Runacarendalur cursed himself for eleven kinds of fool—and then cursed his mother for good measure, as he was certain this was of Ladyholder Glorthiachiel’s weaving. Who else could have—or would have—told the girl her true name?

“That’s as may be, girl,” Mistress Maeredhiel said briskly, “but here we care nothing for the quarrels of the Hundred Houses—nor will you, if you have wit.”

Vieliessar opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it again, glowering wordlessly. Berthon and Athrothir were backing away from her, their expressions as shocked as if she had named herself Beastling. Thurion alone clearly had no idea what her declaration meant, for he simply gazed at her, his expression puzzled.

“Prince Runacarendalur, the Sanctuary of the Star thanks you for your service,” Mistress Maeredhiel said, as if there had been no interruption. “Will you visit the Shrine while you are here?”

Runacarendalur took a hasty step backward, and cursed inwardly at the gleam of amusement he saw in Maeredhiel’s eyes. He knew the day would come when he must stand within the Shrine and be judged by the Silver Hooves, as his father had been before him—but Pelashia grant that day still lay far in the future!