The matter wasn’t settled so simply, of course. If Bolecthindial set a search party hunting Vieliessar without the consent of the other War Princes, he’d be violating the protocols under which they’d all come to war, and even Caerthalien could not stand against the power of the rest of the Alliance. The great cloth-of-gold pavilion in which the War Princes dined each evening was occupied long into the night as they argued; Runacarendalur occupied himself by deciding who he’d take with him if he were allowed to go at all.
His own guard, of course: Helecanth and his Twelve. Five more tailles beyond that, as he’d need to deal with any fighters Vieliessar had with her. His brother Ivrulion and as many more Lightborn as Bolecthindial would let him have—twenty would be good, forty would be better—to manage her Magery and the Lightborn with her. Supplies and servants. And once he had the bitch in chains, he’d tell Ivrulion the truth about being Bonded to her. He’d have to. Runacarendalur would need someone to help make sure his death when Vieliessar was executed did as little harm to Caerthalien as possible.
Every time Runacarendalur thought about being Bondmate to Vieliessar Farcarinon (Oronviel no longer existed; let the rebel be ruined under the name she’d been born to) he became so furious he could barely see. To have had his fate involuntarily linked to hers was cruelly wrong.
When dawn outshone the glow of the Silverlight, Runacarendalur still did not know what decision had been reached. The War Council had ended its deliberations some candlemarks before, but Bolecthindial had not seen fit to inform him of their decision and Runacarendalur knew better than to try his father’s temper by sending a servant to ask.
He was preparing to don his armor for the day when one of his father’s servants arrived, summoning him to Lord Bolecthindial’s pavilion. Runacarendalur hastily flung on an overrobe and camp boots and hurried to the meeting. It was still a candlemark before dawn, but the air was already appreciably warmer than it had been at this time the previous day, and his boots squelched over muddy ground—a worrisome foretelling for the day’s travel.
When he entered the pavilion he found both Lord Bolecthindial and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel seated at the long table in the outer room. Servants were setting out breakfast breads and meats. Ivrulion followed on Runacarendalur’s heels a moment later.
“Here we are,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “A happy family, all together.”
“My commiserations upon the unexpected loss of Princess Angiothiel and Princess Ciliphirilir, in that case,” Runacarendalur said dryly, gazing around ostentatiously.
“Still asleep,” Ivrulion said. He walked past Runacarendalur to take a seat at the table, gesturing to a servant to pour him a cup of hot cider.
“Well, Runacar, sit down,” Glorthiachiel said irritably. “Don’t make me gape up at you. Lord Bolecthindial has distressing news.”
“You’re deaf, you addled viper,” her husband said, as Runacarendalur found a chair. “This was his idea. And since apparently Caerthalien is to be held at fault forever for anything Farcarinon’s whelp may do—”
“You should have let me bribe someone at the Sanctuary to poison her,” Glorthiachiel interrupted.
“—you will be hunting her down,” Lord Bolecthindial finished, speaking louder to drown out his wife’s words. “I strongly suggest you succeed.”
“What
“They offer
It was more than generous, given that Lord Bolecthindial did not think he should go at all. Runacarendalur inclined his head. “I thank you, Father.” Quickly he outlined what he wanted.
“So little?” Lord Bolecthindial said, surprised.
“She had only a taille of
“—has many days start. Yes. My ears are weary of hearing it,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “And before you ask —no, you do not have my leave to go. Send a servant to prepare your wagons. Are you some hedge knight who must do everything yourself?”
While the wagons were being loaded, Runacarendalur sent Ivrulion to Jaeglenhend’s Chief Huntsman. Ivrulion could be both charming and persuasive, and from Lady Valariel, he obtained her best tracker, a Landbond named Lidwal. It was nearly midday by the time Runacarendalur’s sortie party drew clear of the main force, for the morning had been a nightmare of stopping and starting and unsticking wagons mired in mud. His meisne rode fully armed and mounted on their destriers—Runacarendalur wouldn’t make the mistake of assuming Jaeglenhend wasn’t hostile; if there was anything the War Princes should have learned from this War Season, it was that the commons and the Landbonds were treacherous and untrustworthy. Beyond that, it wouldn’t hurt to give the destriers a little exercise before asking them to plod along under saddle while Lidwal searched for Vieliessar’s trail. They gave the horses a good gallop, and then reined them to a walk to let the wagons catch up.
“Maybe you’ll be fit to speak to now. My Lord,” Helecanth said, once the destriers had slowed.
Runacarendalur grinned at the captain of his personal guard. “Maybe I will. And even more so once we’ve dragged our so-called High King back to her execution!”
Helecanth laughed and set Rochonan dancing simply because she could. The day was bright and the air was cool.
“Time to earn your bread,” Runacarendalur said to Lidwal. “What lies south of here?”
“How far south?” Lidwal asked. He looked too amused by his own wit for Runacarendalur’s taste.
“I am certain Lady Valariel expects you returned to her whole and unharmed,” Runacarendalur said, smiling as if he found Lidwal amusing. “But when you think about it, Lady Valariel is only Huntsman to the prince of a minor Less House, while I am Runacarendalur of Caerthalien. You may not care about that. But my brother is Lightborn, and
Lidwal glanced from Runacarendalur to Ivrulion. Ivrulion smiled, and Runacarendalur thanked the Silver Hooves yet again for the fortune that had given his elder brother to the Light, for if it had not, he knew he would have faced a formidable competitor for their father’s throne—had he been born at all. Lidwal swallowed nervously, and Runacarendalur decided he’d judged correctly: a commonborn who knew himself too valuable to kill often became inured to physical punishment. But the hearth tales of the frightful spells the Lightborn could wield had spread even to crofter’s huts.
“I beg pardon, Prince Runacarendalur. I meant no harm,” Lidwal said humbly. “From here to the border, a few farms, nothing more. Follow this line due west and you might run into a hedge knight’s manor or two, but this far east … nothing.”
“And what lies on the other side of the border?” Runacarendalur asked.
“Nothing. My lord prince, I swear to you by the Huntsman it is true!” Lidwal cried in agitation. “To the south of Jaeglenhend there is forest. Nothing else.”
Runacarendalur glanced at Ivrulion. He’d never campaigned in the Uradabhur, and only ridden over it once, during the Bethros Rebellion. If he wasn’t going to fight over a territory, he didn’t care what was there, and if he was going to fight over it, he had maps.
“Is the forester lying, Mardioruin?” Ivrulion asked.
“It is as he says, Prince Ivrulion,” Mardioruin Lightbrother said. “There is nothing on Jaeglenhend’s southern border but forest. Some of the domains east of here extend farther south along the foothills of the Bazrahil range, but to take the Southern Pass Route westward one must jog northward at Keindostibaent and then track south again through the Tamabeth Hills.”
“Where is the nearest of the border keeps?” Runacarendalur asked next. Even if there were nothing to the
