Crown of Vengeance

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 battle, 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