Crown of Vengeance

She was gazing upon Amrethion Aradruiniel. The last High King.

“She will die. You will die,” Vieliessar blurted. “Your lords will rise up against your children. There has been war from your day to mine.”

She saw Amrethion’s golden eyes darken with grief. “It is well I shall remember nothing of this when I wake,” he said softly. “I could not bear it.”

“You must remember!” Vieliessar said urgently. “If it has not yet happened, you can change it. You can save your Queen and your realm—write plainly of the danger so your children will know, and fear, and prepare—”

“It cannot be,” he said sadly. “When my beloved came from Tildorangelor to become my bride, she knew even then the doom that lay over our race. To name it plainly would be to summon it before we could defend ourselves against it.”

“How can you say that?” Vieliessar demanded. She forgot she dreamed, she forgot she argued with one millennia dead. All that mattered to her in this moment was making him understand. “We aren’t ready! You name me Child of the Prophecy, and I have never held a sword! There is no High King, just a hundred jealous princes quarreling among themselves! If the danger is as terrible as you say, we will not prevail. We will die. If you love us—your people, your children—please! Tell me what comes!”

“Darkness,” Amrethion said. “Darkness. I have done—I will do—all I can. My queen’s power binds the coming ages in chains of prophecy. These words will be a beacon of Magery that gains power with the passing of centuries, spirit, until at last you are summoned forth.”

“You’re afraid of it,” Vieliessar said, in a voice that trembled with fury. “Whatever it is—whatever you say I must face—you’re so afraid of it you want to hide behind cryptic poetry and hope—hope! —that I can do what you cannot.”

“I do hope,” Amrethion answered. “I—we—hope we have made the right choices.” He gazed into her eyes, and there was no hint of apology in his expression. “If Pelashia named Darkness to me—if I remembered this moment out of time and acted upon my knowledge—the alfaljodthi would be destroyed. And so she remains silent. And you have long years in which to grow strong. You will understand when you confront Darkness.”

She took a step forward—unwilling to listen to his arguments, unwilling to think they might hold truth—but as she did so, the beautiful room with its strange delicate furniture, its king who had never worn armor nor held a sword, seemed to dwindle in every direction at once. As she fell from dreaming into true sleep, she had the strange sourceless insight that often accompanied dreams. She saw herself for an instant as Amrethion would have seen her: a barbarian coarsened by generations of war, born out of violence and murder and carrying them with her into whatever future she could create.

She thrashed herself into wakefulness, gasping for breath. For a moment she could not remember why grief was a cold and terrible weight in her throat.

Then she remembered her vision of Amrethion, and wept.

What am I to do? What am I to do?

* * *

A fortnight later, the weather turned soft, and spring plowing began at Rosemoss Farm. The first caravan of the season passed through the Flower Forest on the way to the Sanctuary of the Star.

It was time to return.

Her steps were slow with reluctance. She would be returning to live beneath the roof of her enemy, just as she had in childhood—but she had not known Caerthalien was her enemy until the moment she left it. She meant to go before Hamphuliadiel in the rags and dirt of her banishment, for they would give her the semblance of humility and penitence he required. It would be a hard thing to endure, but she had done harder. Perhaps—with enough time—she might win his approval. His help. She could not imagine herself as the agent of the Prophecy, destroying the Fortunate Lands and all who lived within its bounds. She would die first.

As she stepped onto the path that led through Arevethmonion, she heard the jingle of harness in the distance and the earth beneath her feet vibrated to the slow thud of draft oxen’s feet. She stopped and waited.

“I greet you in the name of the Sanctuary of the Star, Prince Anarolodh,” she said.

It had been a simple matter to cast True Speech to Hear the lead rider’s name, and she had not needed it to know his house or rank, for he wore the scarlet and sable of Gerchiliael, with the wheat-sheaf of lesser cadency below the crossed swords of its device.

Anarolodh inclined his head. “Lightsister,” he said. “In the name of Dondialoch Gerchiliael, I thank you for the Sanctuary’s care of us. Will you ride?” he asked.

“I will walk,” she answered, and took her place at his side. He touched his spurs to his palfrey’s flanks, and the procession moved slowly forward once again. If Prince Anarolodh found her disheveled condition odd, the thought of it did not trouble the surface of his mind.

Dilvalos Lightsister joined them half a candlemark later. She had not been at the Sanctuary when Vieliessar had been banished, so the Caerthalien Candidates must have been the first along this road this season. She gave Vieliessar a startled look—clearly she knew of the banishment—but said merely: “There is a great disarray before you, for everyone seems to have set forth the moment the roads were dry. Caerthalien arrived at yesterday’s dawn, and before its wagons were half unloaded, Cirandeiron and Telthorelandor came as well. We shall have all the Seven here together, for Mangiralas and Rolumienion are expected today, and Inglethendragir and Ullilion tomorrow.”

And Hamphuliadiel will be much occupied with their envoys, for all but Ullilion are High Houses, Vieliessar thought. “It will be much work for Mistress Hamonglachele to care for them all,” she answered, keeping her voice low so that Anarolodh did not hear two Lightborn speaking of such homely things.

Dilvalos frowned. “That is—” she began, and stopped, as if she had been lured into speaking of things she must not.

* * *

Pavilions were spread out all across the fields surrounding the Sanctuary. Vieliessar let Dilvalos lead Prince Anarolodh and the new Candidates into the Sanctuary antechamber, while she went with the wagons into the courtyard as if this were her assigned task. The stableyard was chaotic, for Radanding Stablemaster’s staff had been sharply winnowed as Candidates rejoined their Houses or passed on to the Postulancy, and there was another wagon train already here, bearing a banner in the violet and silver of Inglethendragir.

Inglethendragir had risen from Low to High upon Farcarinon’s bones.

“Mistress Morgaenel greets—” A boy in the grey livery of the Sanctuary servants came rushing up to the wagons and stopped, his eyes going wide with consternation at his inability to identify the device before him.

“Greets Gerchiliael and bids them welcome,” Vieliessar prompted gently. She kept her face smooth, but she was puzzled. Mistress Morgaenel’s place was the kitchens, not the guesthouse.

“—and says I am to show you where you may set your pavilions, for the guesthouse is full.”

“Are we to wallow in mud as if we were Windsward rabble?” Komen Thalien demanded. She was the leader of Prince Anarolodh’s Twelve. “Make room—or shall I do it for you?”

“Komen Thalien, it is our great sorrow that we have so little space for guests,” Vieliessar said quickly. “But Inglethendragir will bear you company.” She gestured toward the field, hidden now by the buildings of the outer courtyard. Her Green Robe might be stained and tattered, but it still marked her as Lightborn: at last Komen Thalien nodded.

“Very well, brat. I will look at your mudhole.”

The boy hurried off and Komen Thalien followed. Now Radanding Stablemaster approached, with two of his assistants in tow. He was as shocked to see Vieliessar as Dilvalos Lightsister had been—but his gaze held something more than mere surprise.

Grief.

And warning.

“You are needed in the guesthouse, Lightsister,” he said brusquely, before turning to walk quickly down the line of wagons to see what must be unloaded.

If Hamphuliadiel did not know already that she was here, he would within a quartermark, and to tarry would