Crown of Vengeance

only give him new fuel for his discontent.

But only a fool disregarded a warning given by a friend.

* * *

The guesthouse was an odd building—a manor house wing with no manor attached. It was long and narrow, set behind the stables and across a broad courtyard paved with smooth river stones. Its ground floor held a bathhouse, a refectory, the workroom of Mistress Guesthouse, and a storage room for those things used in the guesthouse alone—blankets and linens, perfumes for the bath, and wines and strong cordials. On its second floor lay the sleeping chambers. Depending upon the demands of its guests, it could accommodate up to sixteen visitors, but the interior walls were designed to fold back to create larger rooms, and if Caerthalien and Cirandeiron were both in occupancy, their princes would both insist on great state. Battle might be forbidden upon the Sanctuary grounds, but there were other ways of challenging a rival than with a swordblade.

In all her years at the Sanctuary, Vieliessar had never crossed the courtyard to the guesthouse, for it lay beyond the bounds where her life was sacrosanct. Now she hurried past the refectory, where loud talk and laughter proclaimed the guests at their morning meal, and closeted herself quickly in Hamonglachele’s workroom, sliding the door closed behind her.

It had much the look of Maeredhiel’s workroom in the Sanctuary—the same litter of scrolls and wax tablets upon the broad table, the same low stool. On the wall behind the worktable, instead of a collection of keys, stood a slateboard upon which was painted the plan of the sleeping chambers. Within each square was a cryptic notation in chalk, saying who occupied each one. Above the worktable itself hung a suspended grid of sixteen silver bells, each engraved with the design of the flower for which each guesthouse chamber was named.

Vieliessar seated herself upon the stool, wondering how long she would have to wait and more conscious than ever of her unkempt appearance. Her feet were bare, and they and her hands were callused with moonturns of hard work. Her hair was longer than it should be, and her robe, though clean, was ragged and stained.

She had barely finished her catalogue of the chamber and her person when the door slid back. Vieliessar tensed, but it was Morgaenel who entered. She slid the door quickly shut behind her, and latched it.

“Praise Pelashia! You’re alive!” Morgaenel gasped. “The winter was so hard!”

“I came as Radanding meant I should, but I know not why. ’Ilthel, why are you here? Where is ’Chele?”

“She is now Mistress of Servants,” Morgaenel said softly. “Maeredhiel has gone to the Vale of Celenthodiel. It was the lung-fever. She took ill just after Midwinter. Hamphuliadiel even sent Momioniarch Lightsister to attend her. No one thought it was serious—even Momioniarch said it might be repaired better by rest than by a Healing. When ’Chele went to look in on her one morning … it was too late for Healing.”

“May she find happiness in the Vale of Celenthodiel,” Vieliessar said quietly. If the spirit truly survived as more than a hungry ghost, Vieliessar prayed Maeredhiel and Aradrothiach would find each other and at last complete their Bond.

This was Hamphuliadiel’s work. Vieliessar knew it beyond doubt. He’d worked to erase all trace of Celelioniel’s scholarship from the land … but there had been one who had been Celelioniel’s confidante. Who had been present upon the night of Vieliessar’s birth.

Maeredhiel.

If she had thought— If she had known what Hamphuliadiel would do—

“I suppose she did not think it was more than a cough that could be banished with time and rest,” Vieliessar answered steadily.

“I am sure you are right,” Morgaenel answered. “What else could it have been?”

* * *

Go. Go now before you lose your courage.

It was deep night on the day she had returned to the Shrine.

She had not gone before Hamphuliadiel.

She had thought his enmity was a thing that fell upon her alone, a thing that might be reasoned with. Now she knew it was not. Maeredhiel had died of it. Anyone might be next.

Of a surety, Hamphuliadiel’s next attempt upon her would be something more certain than a winter’s banishment. She’d already placed her friends in danger enough by giving them the secret of her return to hold. I shall never again offer up hostages to a madman’s will, she vowed grimly.

She wore a heavy cloak, boots, and the grey tunic and trousers of a Candidate. Over her shoulder was slung a leather bag holding knife, waterskin, bread, and cheese, gifts of Morgaenel. It had been a risk to involve her even that much, but Vieliessar had little choice. She could Shield herself in the guesthouse workroom and so escape discovery, but to move about the Sanctuary would guarantee exposure. Even if Hamphuliadiel discovered she had returned and departed again, it would probably not occur to him to question the Sanctuary servants.

And even if he did …

Vieliessar was Lightborn. Servants did not question orders the Lightborn gave. Indeed, Morgaenel had asked no questions.

Go now, Vieliessar told herself.

She eased open the door of the workroom. The guesthouse was dark and silent. She crossed the floor on silent feet and eased open the outer door. Across the courtyard, the Sanctuary of the Star was dark and quiet. The only light came from the lanterns hung upon its gate.

She closed the door behind her and walked into Arevethmonion.

She did not look back.

* * *

He had not expected to end his days in a forest cottage on Caerthalien land. If—by the grace of the Silver Hooves—he had lived into old age, Gunedwaen had expected a place of honor at his lord’s table, quiet days spent imparting the lore of his long life to the children who would grow to become komen—the strong defense of his noble house.

Of Farcarinon.

The shutter rattled. It was autumn, and old bones and old injuries ached in the cold. Striker raised her head, gazing about the room for a moment before returning to sleep. The hikuliasa was good company, though Gunedwaen had never decided what purpose had lain in Bolecthindial’s mind when he had presented the animal as a gift. Perhaps to mock Gunedwaen’s own state, for the beast had been lamed and half wild.

Each winter Gunedwaen thought of letting his fire die, of walking out into the snow and laying his bones down for the last time. Freezing was said to be a gentle death, far more so than the deaths he had dealt. And each year he told himself: Next year. Not this year. Next year. Perhaps it was curiosity that kept him living. Perhaps it was the wish to fight one last battle. The Silver Hooves would not take him if he died peacefully, and he had no taste for wandering as a homeless ghost till the stars grew dark.

The shutter rattled again,

“You should show yourself,” Gunedwaen said calmly. “If you have come to kill me, I must say you are some years too late.”

“You cannot have known I was here,” a voice said.

“Had I not learned the skill to see the unseen, I would have perished long since,” Gunedwaen answered. He had not been truly certain of her presence until she spoke. Striker raised her head from her paws again, gazing curiously in the direction of the voice. She seemed puzzled. “I would have you show yourself, stranger.”

“Are you truly so eager to die?” the voice asked.

“Are you truly so dangerous?” Gunedwaen answered.

There was a moment of silence, then: “Once I would have said I wished no harm to any. I would know who your fealty is pledged to, old man.”

“What Landbond pledges to any lord but the next harvest?” Gunedwaen answered mockingly.

There was a snort of contempt from behind him. Striker made a soft sound in her throat.

“I have known Landbonds in plenty, old man. You are not one.”

“You are well traveled for one of the Night Brotherhood. If not well informed,” Gunedwaen observed.

“Well informed enough to know I have never seen one of the Children of Night, nor have you. I come to ask your House and your fealty. I already know your name.”

“If you know my name, you know all there is to know,” Gunedwaen answered. With laborious care, he shifted