But even as he’d marshaled their allies to betray Serenthon, Bolecthindial had never hated him as in the last several moonturns he had come to loathe his fellow War Princes. And now they had forced upon him the ultimate insult.
Bolecthindial had been fond of all his children. Vieliessar had taken most of them. He would trade the life of one of the survivors for the life of the other—for Caerthalien.
It had all—always—been for Caerthalien.
As they reached the door of the pavilion, Bolecthindial heard the horns echoing through the camp, signaling the end of the abeyance. He turned to Runacarendalur.
“There is one last duty I must ask of you, as liege if not as father.”
“Father, do not think—I swear to you, what he has done does not—”
“Nor will it,” Bolecthindial said. “And so I charge you—survive this day. Do not rashly seek your death. What is made can be unmade. You will know that when you are War Prince.”
For a moment it seemed Runacarendalur would refuse him. Then he grasped Bolecthindial’s gloved and jeweled hand in his bloody gauntlets, and raised it to his lips.
“I swear to you, there is no other prince among the Hundred Houses I would ever have followed as gladly as I have always followed you, Father,” he said.
Their breath smoked on the chill air as they walked out onto the deserted battlefield. The air swirled with power, low and hot and forbidden, for it was the power spilled forth by the dead along with their blood. To Lightborn senses, it hung over the battlefield like a dark fog. The Sanctuary taught Mosirinde’s Covenant even before it taught Magery:
“I do not understand what we’re doing, Father,” Huthiel said.
“We are gaining victory for Caerthalien and the Twelve,” Ivrulion answered.
“If I am to help Caerthalien to victory I must do it by the sword, and yet you refused to let me fight today—it was humiliating to see my
“Soon they will not,” Ivrulion said, stopping. “If you had been a prince, as you were meant to be, you would have learned that it is the duty of the elder to sacrifice themselves so that the younger may flourish and rule, for only in that way can the House itself flourish and command.”
“I was raised among princes,” Huthiel said stiffly. “But—”
“Know that you are truly a prince of Caerthalien, Huthiel,” Ivrulion said. He drew his son close and kissed him upon the forehead. “Now I will teach you there are more paths to victory than can be gained by the sword.”
He stepped away from Huthiel and closed his eyes. The blood-drenched earth had frozen; it was black and glittering, like dark glass. He raised his arms, feeling a thrill bordering on ecstasy as he swept up that forbidden power and began to shape it.
Janglanipaikharain had been drained of nearly all it could safely give. Now Ivrulion took the rest. Hundreds of miles to the west, the ever-living trees became a ghost forest. Fruit and flower and leaf, dead and withered, fell from lifeless branches, moss and vine turned brown and crisped away into dust. The soil in which Janglanipaikharain had once bloomed and flourished became lifeless sand.
The power swept across the battlefield, shaped by Ivrulion’s will and resonating to his desire. All around him, lifeless flesh stirred to answer the call.
For a moment the bespelling trembled on the knife edge of failure. Then Ivrulion turned swiftly and drew the knife he’d held concealed in his hand swiftly across Huthiel’s—
The power of Huthiel’s death coursed through Ivrulion’s veins like fire and wine, the gateway to power even he had only dimly imagined. Now he could feel the living heartbeat of the world—and with all his mind and will, Ivrulion plunged the dagger of his spell into it. Life and death were one. Ivrulion threw back his head and howled his triumph.
Then the power crested like a great wave and rolled back toward him, feeding on death as it came. Ivrulion screamed as he saw the danger, but it was too late. Power filled him, transformed him, enflamed him with a ravenous hunger that must be fed on death—a hunger that could never be satisfied, never be slaked. The ice beneath his feet became fog. The grass became dust. The soil became lifeless sand. Ivrulion was no longer
And the dead answered his call. Huthiel stirred, rose, then staggered across the battlefield to where a sword lay abandoned and clutched its hilt in still-cooling fingers. Destriers lunged to their feet, dragged themselves inexorably from pitfalls. For mile upon mile across the sprawling battlefield, dead flesh, blank-eyed and shambling, rose and began to move southward toward the pass, driven and animated by the will of that which had once been Ivrulion of Caerthalien.
The Alliance warhorns sounded, signaling the end of the abeyance. Vieliessar felt a pang of relief. By now the Alliance must have realized that its
She could not say whether she hoped for or dreaded the possibility that Runacarendalur might be among those to concede. If he lived …
“My lord! Do you see—” Rithdeliel began.
Vieliessar never heard the end of Rithdeliel Warlord’s question, for suddenly a wave of foulness poured through her Shields as if they didn’t exist. She dropped her sword and clawed at her armor as bile rose in her throat. Each breath she drew seared throat and lungs. She felt her flesh rot and liquefy. Her ears were filled with gibbering, with the chittering laughter of things that could not exist.
Her Shields had saved her life a thousand times in the Sanctuary of the Star. They could not protect her now. She clawed at her helm, trying to shut out the terrible unreal sounds. Shouts of alarm, screams of terror, were transformed into prophecies of destruction, abomination,
And failed.
“What’s he doing?” Sedreret Aramenthiali demanded. His voice was a conspiratorial whisper despite the fact that Ivrulion and Huthiel were much too distant to hear him.
“A Great Spell,” Ladyholder-Abeyant Dormorothon said. Her tone, arch and patronizing, managed to imply that Ivrulion had consulted her for advice and now acted at her direction.
