Crown of Vengeance

Pain was an old friend. Year by year, Caerthalien had taught him its true meaning. Hunger and cold and the lonely anguish of survival. The pain of maimed limbs that could do nothing. Death was a small thing, for he only went to keep an appointment far too long delayed. Dust filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth, blinding and fine. He staggered against the storm, forcing his eyes to slits.

Not far now.

He could smell burning, as some forgotten bit of metal heated forge-hot, but where it burned him, he did not know, for his whole body thrilled with agony. His mouth filled with the metal taste of blood. His progress slowed to a spasming shamble, as if his body had become a mazhnune’s dead flesh. He raised clawed and shaking hands to wipe his eyes, to see what lay ahead.

From the center of a widening circle of desolation, Ivrulion gazed upon him with eyes that were black and sightless with blood. His mouth drooled dark ichor in the green-violet light, blood gushed from his nose, dripped from his ears, sketched dark tear-tracks over his face. The wind whipped the blood away; where it struck Gunedwaen, it smoked and burned. Gunedwaen staggered into the whirlwind across scorched and smoking dust. His body shook and trembled, each beat of his heart so violent his chest felt bruised from within. What was this pain in comparison to all he had suffered through the years until Serenthon’s daughter recalled him to life?

It does not matter if I die. It matters where I die.

Not far now.

He could no longer see. Over the howling of the maelstrom he heard the wild silver bells of the Hunt riding across the sky.

I come, Huntsman. I come.

A body beneath his hands. A throat. The touch of Ivrulion’s flesh seared his skin as if he grasped forge-hot iron, but he did not feel the fire. He was far away, on a battlefield in autumn, where Farcarinon’s silver wolves howled against the sky.

Then there was nothingness.

* * *

There was a bright flash, as if a kindled pyre suddenly fed upon oil. There was a great trembling as all the mazhnune fell in the same moment, and suddenly, across the whole expanse of Ifjalasairaet, there was utter silence and stillness. For a heartbeat there was darkness, but as Rithdeliel gazed toward the sky, the clouds began to scud away.

The spell was broken.

With a weary exhalation, he leaned on his swordhilt. Only the silhouettes of horses and riders standing motionless upon the plain let Rithdeliel know he was not the last living thing in all the land. He did not know how long he stood watching the sky above lighten into blue before he heard the first warhorn sound. It was no call he knew, merely a single note, sustained for as long as the knight-herald had breath. But its meaning was plain.

We live.

* * *

He passed the War Princes as they rode toward whatever remained of Vieliessar Farcarinon’s army. They paid no attention to him; he was just another filthy, exhausted warrior making his way to camp. They rode without armor or escort, and Runacarendalur knew then that Vieliessar had won. The War Princes were riding to surrender. He did not see his father among them. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps they’d slain him when they saw what Ivrulion had done.

He should ride after them—ask—claim Caerthalien if Bolecthindial was dead. But what then? He could not bear the thought of kneeling to Vieliessar and offering her Caerthalien’s fealty, and his.

He could not bear the thought of taking her as his Bondmate.

The encampment seemed utterly deserted, the sight of his own pavilion like something out of another lifetime. Slowly and stiffly he slipped from Bentrain’s back; the destrier stood wearily, head hanging. He looped the animal’s reins over the saddle and patted him on the shoulder. “Go find someone to take care of you,” he said. “You deserve it.”

As if he understood, Bentrain sighed gustily and began walking slowly toward the horselines. Runacarendalur entered his pavilion. It was deserted, but there was food and drink laid out on the table, and a bowl of washing water stood beside Runacarendalur’s favorite chair. He wondered who had left it for him.

He poured a tankard full of weak beer and drained it twice before he began the long work of removing his armor. It was sheer bliss to unlace his aketon and peel it away from his bruised and sweat-fouled skin. He sopped one of the cloths waiting neatly folded beside the washing bowl, and scrubbed himself as clean as he could.

I am Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien, he told himself. Caerthalien, greatest of the High Houses.

He shook his head. No longer. There were no more High Houses. Vieliessar had won. And whether she had summoned her victory by fair means or foul, he knew he could not stay to see it. With dragging steps he walked through the curtain into his sleeping chamber. Boots, trousers, tunic, the heavy stormcloak he hadn’t worn on the field. It took him a long and aching while to fumble his way into his clothes. He left the tray of his jewels untouched.

When he walked back into the outer chamber, Helecanth was waiting for him. She’d removed her helmet; her face was bruised from the blows she’d taken in battle.

“My lord,” she said.

Runacarendalur laughed jaggedly. “Did you not know? We have a High King now, and she means us to be done with lords and vassals.”

“You will always be my true lord, Runacarendalur Caerthalien,” Helecanth answered.

Even though he’d half suspected it, to hear himself named War Prince of Caerthalien was like a blow to his chest. He shook his head mutely, reaching for his sword. It lay propped against the chair where he’d left it.

Helecanth stepped forward quickly to pick it up, then stepped forward to arm him. He stopped her for just long enough to slip the ornamental buckle with Caerthalien’s device from the baldric, then stood quietly as she buckled it into place.

“Where do we ride, my lord?” she asked when she was done.

“No.” His tongue and his mind were thick with exhaustion; he struggled to make himself clear. “I go into outlawry. I will not kneel to a High King.”

“Then Caerthalien fights beside you,” Helecanth said steadily.

“Do you think I mean to take my House into useless rebellion?” Runacarendalur said. “I go because the High King is my destined Bondmate—”

His words stumbled to a stop as he heard what he’d said. Ivrulion is dead. The geasa he set upon me is broken. Once he’d yearned for this moment, for his freedom. Now it seemed a distant and trivial thing.

“She is my Bondmate,” he repeated. “But I reject her, and I reject her kingship. All I ask is that I may never hear the name of Vieliessar High King again.” He closed his eyes in weariness. “Stay, Helecanth. They will need you.”

“As you have ordered it, I will obey,” Helecanth said. “But you will need a good horse. Come.”

Numbly Runacarendalur followed as she led him from his pavilion. The weight of the sword upon his hip was the only familiar thing. Helecanth led him to the tiny paddock in the middle of the Caerthalien precinct where horses were held saddled and ready for Caerthalien’s great nobles. Helecanth’s Rochonan was there, muddy, blood- spattered, and weary—and beside her waited another mare. A pale grey palfrey, fresh and alert. Her saddle leather and her bridle were both deep green, the saddle stamped in gold with the three stars of Caerthalien. I suppose my brother won’t need her now.

“Thank you,” Runacarendalur said. “You have been a good— You have been a good friend to me, Helecanth.”

“It has been a privilege to serve you, my lord,” Helecanth answered gravely.

Runacarendalur walked over to the mare. She nuzzled at his chest, obviously hoping for treats. He stroked her nose in mute apology, and with a grunt of effort, thrust his foot into her waiting stirrup and swung into the saddle. She was Ivrulion’s, and I do not even remember her name.…

“Fare you well, Lady Helecanth,” he said.