Crown of Vengeance

father’s first gift to him. His hands shook. Every muscle strained.

He could not force it against his throat.

With a cry of despair, Runacarendalur dropped the weapon to the carpet and flung himself into a chair. The pavilion was empty. There was no one here to bring him a cup of hot wine, help him off with his filthy and blood- clotted armor, or draw a bath.

Our arming pages and squires joined us on the field. If our servants have not fled outright, they hide, awaiting the outcome of the day.

And all he could see when he closed his eyes was a moonsilver crown of Vilya against a green helm. “Beloved,” Runacarendalur snarled in rage.

“Do you say so, dear brother? Rejoice. You may join her at last.”

Ivrulion shimmered into existence, a thin cloak of grey fabric pooling at his feet. Its surface shifted as if it were made of smoke, and Ivrulion’s hands vanished into its folds.

“Monster!” Runacarendalur screamed. He flung himself at his brother’s throat, only to crash to the carpet, trembling, as every muscle betrayed him.

“Such drama,” Ivrulion said coolly. “When I am here to grant you what every noble scion of the Hundred Houses should value more than life. Victory.”

“It isn’t me you want to be talking to, then,” Runacarendalur growled through gritted teeth.

“No,” Ivrulion agreed. “But I think you should be present, all the same.”

* * *

“What treachery is this?” Mindingener Jovadigalas demanded as Ivrulion and Runacarendalur entered the Council tent. The guards who should have stopped them stood frozen. Bespelled. “Do you seek to set yourself above us all, Bolecthindial?”

“My father is as witlessly conventional as the rest of you,” Ivrulion said, sounding bored. “He would never presume to set himself above you without first placing a sword at your throats. No. I have come to see whether you wish to win—or to become Farcarinon’s lapdogs.”

“To win, of course,” Sedreret Aramenthiali said. He strove for a patronizing tone and failed. “I wonder why you did not come forward earlier, if you hold the secret of victory.”

“Because he—” Runacarendalur struggled to speak the truth—Vieliessar, the Bonding, Ivrulion’s betrayal— and found himself forced once more to silence.

“Because my aid comes at a price,” Ivrulion said, ignoring him. “You would not have been willing to pay it while you could see any other path to victory.”

“If you have come to mock this council, remember you have sworn your fealty oath to me,” Bolecthindial said. The half-threat was a thing of reflex; if Runacarendalur was Bolecthindial’s son in thought and action, Ivrulion was Glorthiachiel’s. Glorthiachiel had always thought about what might be before facing what was; her clever mind had brought Bolecthindial and Caerthalien many victories, but she had also guarded against dangers that had never come to be.

“I did so swear,” Ivrulion agreed smoothly. “Now you must choose: hold me to those oaths and covenants— or claim the victory.” He smiled coldly. “You cannot force me to give you what you seek.”

“Oh, stop your posturing, Lightbrother,” Girelrian Cirandeiron said crushingly. “Tell us your plan and name your price. We shall enjoy the joke, I promise you. Then you may leave, and we shall return to matters no mere Lightborn can comprehend.”

“How is it that you have held my father’s respect these many years?” Ivrulion asked, as if he truly wanted to know. “Lord Bolecthindial is not known for idiocy.”

“I thank you for that, Ivrulion,” Bolecthindial said, speaking before Lord Girelrian could respond. “Speak. If you can give us the victory, you will not find me ungenerous.”

Ivrulion met Bolecthindial’s gaze for just a moment, and Bolecthindial felt a pang of unease. Ivrulion’s eyes were cold, and it had been many years since Bolecthindial had seen such hatred displayed so openly. “I will give you the victory, and you will make me your heir. I will be War Prince of Caerthalien upon your death. My children will become my heirs in turn. Ronadaniel will become Heir-Princess Ronadaniel. Huthiel will become Prince Huthiel.”

“Ridiculous—and impossible!” Chardararg Lalmilgethior said.

“And what of Prince Runacarendalur?” Runacarendalur said savagely, for these were words he could speak.

“Prince Runacarendalur will not survive the day.” To hear the words said so openly, so coldly, was enough to silence even the War Council. “My request is neither ridiculous nor impossible—if you all agree to it,” Ivrulion added. “If I fight on the field, why should I be barred from rule? Either way, my lords, choose. I cannot give you victory if you have already lost.”

“No,” Bolecthindial said flatly. “You dare speak of mur—”

“And Aramenthiali says yes,” Sedreret replied. “Must we vote upon this as if we are commoners?”

“I do not vote,” Lord Edheleorn said crushingly. “But before I agree to set Prince Runacarendalur aside—he yet lives, my dear Ivrulion—and accept a Lightborn as Caerthalien’s future War Prince, I wish to know how you mean to accomplish what all our meisnes together have not.”

“And I do not!” Bolecthindial roared, overturning his chair as he rounded on Ivrulion. “Shall I listen to you plot the death of my heir and say nothing? I—”

“I plot nothing,” Ivrulion said. “I speak only truth. Prince Runacarendalur will not survive this day. Nor will his death come at my hand.”

* * *

This was his intent all along. From the moment Ivrulion had compelled him to break into the War Council, Runacarendalur had felt nothing but horror. Ivrulion had planned this from the moment he had learned of the Soulbond. He’d seen a chance to gain Caerthalien for himself—not as Ternas of Celebros had done, through regency, but as War Prince in fact.

No matter the cost.

Bolecthindial turned to him, silently demanding answers. And all Runacarendalur could do was cover his face with his hand and turn away.

“Meet my price, and I shall give you an army that will not desert and will not retreat, Lord Edheleorn,” Ivrulion said calmly. “It will slay Vieliessar Farcarinon and every soul who has sworn fealty to her. You will have the victory. And undoubtedly you will hope for Lord Bolecthindial to enjoy many long and happy years.”

“How do we know you will not take this army and make yourself High King?” Lord Sedreret demanded.

“It is your army, my lords, not mine. I do not want the High Kingship. All I want is my birthright. Caerthalien.”

Suddenly, sharp in Runacarendalur’s memory, was a Midwinter Feast he had never seen, but of which he had been told many times. Ivrulion had stood, had spoken the words that had led them to this day.

“Test me, Astorion,” Ivrulion had said, laughing. “I leaped the fire this springtide—you must Call the Light in me as well!”

Would any of the rest have happened—Nataranweiya’s marriage, Serenthon’s plan, Farcarinon’s erasure, Vieliessar and her tangled path to rule—if Ivrulion had never gone to the Sanctuary of the Star?

“It does not matter, Father,” Runacarendalur said softly, putting a hand on his father’s arm. “Come. I must prepare to ride out once more.”

“You have no need to flee, Caerthalien,” Lord Girelrian said. “I believe we are all agreed. Prince Ivrulion will be acknowledged by all of us as Heir-Prince—if he gives us the victory.”

With such a majority, the rest of the War Princes would have no choice but to agree as well.

Even Caerthalien.

“Then swear it, and I shall begin,” Ivrulion said.

Bolecthindial turned away in silence and walked from the tent, Runacarendalur beside him.

* * *

He paid little attention to Runacarendalur as he walked toward the Caerthalien precinct. No War Prince could ever love the rivals who might at any moment destroy lands, family, children—every hostage to the future Time had scattered in their paths like poisoned sweets. But Bolecthindial Caerthalien had long ago learned that hate was a toy for children. The War Princes were beyond both love and hate … at least the ones who survived.