Crown of Vengeance

* * *

The army came to a slow, swirling stop as the plan was passed in whispers. Prompted by Nadalforo, Vieliessar, Rithdeliel, and several others conducted a shouted argument filled with threats and recriminations: Vieliessar was certain they could be heard on the Western Shore, and surely by the Caerthalien meisne.

Then she spurred poor Firthorn away from the army. Diorthiel of Araphant and a ragged handful of knights followed. There was more shouting behind her. Vieliessar’s shoulder blades itched. One single thunderbolt Called upon them from this cloudless sky and the ruse would be truth. Lords of Night, Lords of War, let this work. Manafaeren Sword-Giver, Aradhwain Bride of Battles, I am the sword in Your hands. Star-Crowned, Silver- Hooved, I beg You for this victory.

Iardalaith and his chosen rode after her, shouting for her to wait.

“You must assume they see everything,” Nadalforo had said, and so Vieliessar made as if to stop and let Diorthiel urge her on, crying to Iardalaith to hurry.

Now a flurry of horns sounded from her army as Rithdeliel and the others called them to order.

“Is it working?” Iardalaith hissed into her ear as he reached her.

“I don’t know,” Vieliessar answered tightly. “Is it?”

“Caerthalien is sending messengers back to camp,” Diorthiel announced, looking off into the distance. “If I were them, I wouldn’t wait for orders.”

“If we don’t wait for Stonehorse to get here, they won’t be within the compass of our spell,” Iardalaith said.

“Just to pass the time—before we face odds of ten to one and die—what spell is this that can save us from being taken?” Diorthiel asked.

“You’ve heard of battle cordial, haven’t you?” Iardalaith said, with a small, exultant smile.

Vieliessar had compounded battle cordial many times in her days at the Sanctuary. It made the fires of the body burn star-bright and star-hot, giving its user fantastic strength and endurance—but its use killed, for if the body burned itself out, even the most skilled Healer could not repair the damage.

Iardalaith could now do with Magery what Vieliessar only knew how to do with herbs.

“If there is such a spell, I should know it,” she said, piqued. It was a ridiculous thing to be annoyed at, under the circumstances, but … every new spell, every variation on an established spell, was brought to the Sanctuary to be taught to the Postulants, for there was no other way to transmit the knowledge of the spells than by passing them from Lightborn to Lightborn.

“If you lived on the Western Shore, you would know how needful such a spell is,” Iardalaith said. “We had no wish to bring knowledge of Quicken to the Sanctuary only to have it declared Forbidden.”

Vieliessar nodded. “Forbidden” spells could not be taught, and an untaught spell would be lost within a generation.

“I hate to interrupt this collegium,” Nadalforo said sourly, as her destrier pulled abreast of them, “but Caerthalien is moving off its mark.”

“Now,” Iardalaith said, raising his hand.

Vieliessar felt the warm wind of the spell pass over her as if her body were bare of armor. Beneath her, she felt Firthorn’s muscles quiver with new vitality.

False vitality.

Their mounts would run themselves to death.

They had no choice.

She dug her spurs into his flanks and Firthorn leapt forward.

* * *

“You are fools,” Runacarendalur said, his voice flat with anger. “I had them. I had them. Are you mewling infants to panic at a few scattered coals? Your idiocy has cost us the day.”

“Leash your hound, Caerthalien, or I will do it for you,” Manderechiel Aramenthiali said, waving a languid hand. “I do not explain my decisions to children.”

Runacarendalur drew breath to reply. Then Bolecthindial cleared his throat, and, acknowledging his father’s command, Runacarendalur flung himself into the nearest empty chair instead. He’d told them the commons who’d flocked to Vieliessar’s banner were devious and untrustworthy. Why should anyone expect anything other than more treachery and rebellion once they were captured? But his words had been ignored. And so they have set fire to half the tents in camp! They were small fires, easily put out. It did not require the whole of the army to do it, he thought sullenly.

“You must not be so harsh, my lord husband,” Ladyholder Dormorothon of Aramenthiali said, her tone and her words perfectly calculated to incite Lord Manderechiel further. “I am certain the young prince means well. He is only concerned, as a good son must be, over the welfare of his domain. How will Caerthalien prosper without workers to till the soil?”

“And that touches upon a matter that concerns all of us,” Ivaloriel Telthorelandor said. “We had resigned ourselves to a winter campaign, but that was before we had the good fortune to reclaim so much of our stolen property. The passes have not yet closed. It would be sensible to send the Landbonds back into the West. It will save us the burden of feeding them.”

“Sensible?” Runacarendalur demanded in disbelief. “They are in rebellion! Do you think they will just tamely return to their hovels and behave themselves?”

“But their cause is lost, Prince Runacar,” Ladyholder Edheleorn of Telthorelandor said mildly. “They will have no choice.”

“And of course we must send people with them to make certain they settle into their accustomed ways,” Lord Ivaloriel added. “We would need to do so in any event, for they must have escort through the Dragon’s Gate.”

“Ah, here it comes,” Lord Bolecthindial said bitterly. “Just who—my lord of Telthorelandor—is to look after these spoils of war? And where are they to be resettled? Do we draw lots for them?”

“Obviously they must be returned to the lands they came from,” Lord Clacheu of Denegathaiel said.

“There speaks the weasel in the buttery!” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel cried with deadly sarcasm. “Next you will say that Denegathaiel has suffered the greatest losses and should receive the greatest portion!”

“And why not?” Lord Clacheu demanded. “Or are we next to hear that since Caerthalien now holds all of Brabamant’s lands, she should receive Brabamant’s chattels as well? Perhaps you would like to add Ivrithir and Oronviel to that tally? Laeldor? Araphant? Perhaps all we have taken rightfully belongs to Caerthalien?”

It was as if someone had dropped a torch in a pan of hot oil, Runacarendalur thought uncharitably. In the space of an indrawn breath, everyone in the pavilion was shouting, demanding the spoils of war be distributed immediately—and in their favor.

Fools. They believe that a single victory gives them the whole of the war. Heartsick and furious, Runacarendalur rose to his feet and walked out into the camp.

“I see your moderate words and wise counsel did not have the effect you hoped,” Ivrulion said, stepping from the door of his own pavilion as Runacar began to pass it by.

Runacarendalur paused and regarded his brother in something like despair. Gimragiel dead in Ullilion, Thorogalas dead on the Meadows of Aralhathumindrion, Domcariel dead in Mangiralas, and I will not survive Vieliessar’s execution. Is Caerthalien to be held by Ciliphirilir after Lord Bolecthindial’s death? She would surrender it for a box of sweetmeats and a new jeweled comb! If only ’Rulion were not Lightborn.…

But if Ivrulion had not been Called, Runacarendalur would never have been born.

“What did you expect?” he demanded savagely. “We have barely held this alliance together as it is! It’s a sad day when it is victory that destroys us and not defeat!”

His brother merely shook his head. “It is but a few candlemarks until the next storm strikes. They have no food, shelter, or supplies—what can they do but die?”

“She will find something!” Runacarendalur snarled. “I know not what, but she always does! She—”

“Come,” Ivrulion said, “take a cup of wine with me.” He took Runacarendalur’s arm and compelled him into his pavilion.

The interior was dim, lit only by the afternoon sun shining through the green silk. Runcarendalur followed his